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DRAMATIC WORKS 



BY 



J 

LAUGHTON OSBORN 

X * 



VOLUME IV. 


COMEDIES 



NEW Y O RK 

TAMES MILLER, 647 BROADWAY 


M DCOC LX VIII 











7 $ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
L A U G II T O IN' OSBO E N , 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 


Agathynian Press. 


THE SILYEE HEAD 


MDCCCXLV 


CHARACTERS 


Sir Henry Ferguson, formerly a Colonel in the British 
Army ,— having living with him the children 
of a deceased brother and sitter, whom he 
has adopted. 

Manfred, ) 

_ > his nephews , sons of his deceased brother. 

Oscar, j 1 J 

Theodore Vincent, friend of Manfred. 

Mark Mattison, father of Helen. 

Richard, his son. 

Meddleham, a distant Tcinsman of the young Fergusons by 
their mother's side, and, in the same way, of 
the Mattisons. 

Helen, a poor girl, beloved of Manfred. 

Sybil Vernon, a young widow, orphan niece of Sir Henry, 
through a sister. 

Saffise, a Creole from New Orleans; a casual acquaintance 
of Helen's, and, in secret, the mistress of 
Oscar Ferguson. 


Scene. Baltimore. 

Time. That occupied in the representation. 






THE SILVER HEAD 


Act tite First 

Scene I. A Parlor in the house of Sir Henry. 

Enter , Manfred and Oscar. 

Osc. Now, by my soul! — which, prais’d be Heaven! is not 
Like yours, poetic and most righteous ’Fred, 

Made of the willow, swaying with all winds, 

Though ’twere a breath too light the veil to crimple 

That wantons with the lips you dare not- 

Manf. Hush! — 

Yet is not broken by the strongest storm 
That splits your heart of oak — 

Osc. Splits! Prythee, how? 
Feel here [ striking his breast.] — ’T is not your mis¬ 
tress’ breast— Now God 

Forbid! you’d faint if’t were — ha, ha! — Does this 

[striking it again heartily. 
Sound like a riven heart, or, ’faith, like one 




6 


THE SILVER HEAD 


That anything is like to rive? — at least 
Anything driven with a feather’s impulse, 

Like woman’s pithless and unweighable love — 

A woman’s too, that- 

Manf. Brother Oscar, peace ! 

Your jests are scurril, and I like them not. 

Osc. Prodigious! ’T is exceeding rare, no doubt, 

For men to wince, when, edg’d to do them good, 

The surgeon’s scalpel — scurril would you call it? 
Bites to the quick! eh! 

Manf. Well, well, well! Have done. 
Your willows and your knives, prosaic sage, 

Have swept and cut your purpose off. 

Osc. That’s true. 

We come of a poetic race, you know ; 

Our grandsire rhym’d — as you do; but my vein 
Is good sound satire, not a lover’s whine. 

Enter Vincent. 

Yin. When satire serves to point the sting of spleen, 

Or give an edge to envy, nobler far 

It is, I deem, to be the weakest lover- 

Osc. That splutters fustian when he’s half seas over.— 
There’s a rhyme for you; and, as one can’t be 
Long in your presence or my brother’s here, 

And not be made to love the Muse, or muse, 

I ’ll give you, sir, another, which is this: 

'T were folly to be icise , ichere folly ’s bliss. 

You ’ve heard the sense before; but, if you choose, 





ACT I. SC. 1. 


7 


May have a variation: —thus it reads: 

He most fears satire, who its lash most needs. 

Manf. Brother!— Dear Vincent! Oscar, well you know- 

Osc. Never likes meddling. 

Vine. And so little likes 
Ilis brother’s friend, that even his uncle’s house 
Is no protection from unmanner’d spleen. 

[Oscar dozes low to Vincent. 
Manf. Peace! you are both my friends [ taking a hand of 

each] ; why should you jar ? 

Osc. Because- 

Manf. You rogue! ’t is but a trick, I see, 

To put me by. Come on: what did you mean 
By thanking Heaven your soul was not as mine? 

Osc. [shrugging liis shoulder's.] ’Faith, that it sav’d my feet 
from getting wet. 

Vin. [ significantly .] Truth without flaw, though in false 
quibbling set. 

Osc. Did I not tell you, brother Manfred ? See! 

Your presence is contagious. I ’ll withdraw, 

To — ponder well the truth without a flaw. 

[with deep expression, looJcing full on Vincent , 

and howing very low. 
Manf. [arresting him as he is going.] h es, but you don t 
escape me in this wise. 

Since we all rhyme, why here the question lies: 

[ laughingly , — in a well-meant effort to lceep 

peace between 0. and V. 
What lacks to make the adjuration whole, 





8 


THE SILVER HEAD 


You even now began? ‘‘Now, by ray soul!”— 

’T was thus you swore, then talk’d about a “ willow !” 
Osc. As the Moor’s bride, ere fell on her the pillow. 

[Changing his manner.'] I ’ll tell you, Manfred. Thus 
I would have said : 

Now, by my soul, you are the veriest ass 
That ever thistle brows’d for wholesome grain. 
Occasion courts you, and you turn your back; 

Love woos you, and you smite him on the cheek; 

Like Duncan’s doom’d assassin, in the play, 

“Letting I dare not wait upon I would.'" 

Vin. Where Conscience says I dare not , and I would 
Is Passion’s voice, to fear’s the braver part. 

Be, Manfred, still that honest ass, and prize 
The lawful thistle more' than stolen grain. 

Osc. Sage maxim-dealer — maker you are not, 

Or else past ages borrow’d from your books, —■ 

I might have reckon’d on your tongue. Enough ! 
Manfred, there’s Helen waits you, with her eyes 
That light to opening Paradise; and here — 

Is Solomon, whom moderns Vincent call. Now choose. 
But, by my soul, which, I thank Heaven again 
Melts not like yours, you’d better quickly choose, 

Ere I leap Eden for you! 

Manf. You dare not! — 

Osc. Pshaw! care not; and Saffise contents me still. 

I meant to play the Devil but for your good. 

Vin. Manfred! [sadly.] I hope- What is this Eve? 

Osc. [biting his lips with vexation.] Indeed? 




ACT I. SC. 1. 


9 


Plague on’t! I thought this meddler knew. Good- 
day [to Vin.]: 

Some day, sir, you and I may talk apart, [retiring.] 
Yin. That \s as you please. [ Exit Oscar.] 

Manf Brother! for shame! — He’s gone. 
You will not quarrel? [ anxiously to Vincent. 

Promise me. [ talcing both his hands.] 
Yin. Fear not: 

Hot of my will. But, Manfred, was this well ? 

A secret of such import? — Was my heart 

Less fit to trust to ?- 

Manf. Than a brother’s? Ho: 

And your head fitter. Hot to him — though well, 

I deem, he loves me, [ Yin. shrugs his shoulders in¬ 
credulously. Manf. has his eyes cast down 
and does not observe the movement. 
did I bare my heart: 

He found my folly out I know not how. 

And you—how could I brook your censure, face 
Your laugh ? 

Yin. Can this be possible? [talcing gently his 

hand.] My laugh ? [Manf. 
loolcs up franlcly and confidingly. 
Manf. [pressing his hand.] Forgive me; T was wrong; I 
should remember 

Your pleasantry is never for the sad, 

Hor your wit pointed at your friends. And yet-- 

[hesitating. 


Yin. And yet ? 





10 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Manf. Your rule of duty is so stern ! 

This folly, of a kind- How grave you look! 

Hear me at once: hear all. 

A few days back, 

My cousin Vernon’s period to mourn 

For her dead lord expired, and she must needs, 

So custom and our uncle will’d, do off 
Her weeds of wo, to the last shade of black,* 

With each month lessening, fashion still had left them. 
Most women of her station, figure, youth, 

Would straight have driven to the gayest shrine 
Of Fashion’s gayest priestess, there to assume 
Her votaries’ newest mode; but not so she; 

For Sybil is a glorious creature; though 
She ’ll jest by the hour, when her light-arm’d wit 
Hides tilt with even your own, yet, like to you, 
Within, where the world sees her not, there Duty 
Rules like an empress, and admits no check. 

One of Her laws is Charity, and Sybil 
Would, where she can, make labor’s wages just, 
Quiting 1 the workman’s product, not his name. 

Yin. Noble! [with emotion. 

Manf. Is’t not? [Looking at him attentively .] Hence, 
for her new attire, 

A poor girl has she working here at home. 

At generous rates. ’T was in my cousin’s rooms, 
Where gallantry, my uncle’s wishes more, 

And true regard for Sybil, made me spend 
Many glad hours, I first met this young maid. 




ACT I. SC. 1. 


11 


Helen- What makes you start? 

Yin. It is the name 

Your brother mention’d. Manfred ! — 

Manf. Do but hear. 

Helen- Hush! hither come Sir Henry’s self 

And Sybil. I am not in humor now 

To meet them. Let me go. [ breaking from, him . 

Yin. For what? and whither? 
Ah, Manfred ! [ Exit Manfred, as 

Enter 

Sir Henry Ferguson and Sybil. 

Sir U. Has he left you all alone ? 

Syb. Without the fellowship of even his wits; 

For, uncle, see! poor Mr. Vincent’s dumb. 

Yin. Dumb with surprise his friend had power to fly 
The centre of attraction. 

Syb. O good sir, 

My cousin is eccentric, well you know; 

The laws of vulgar planets rule not him. 

Sir H. Well, let his orbit take him where it will, 

Here’s Mr. Vincent shall revolve with us. 

We ’re for the flowers: to-day some rare ones bloom. 
Yin. Whose beauty will grow lovelier in the light 

Of this contrasted- 

Syb. Uncle, stop his speech ; 

He makes the dullest compliments on earth. 

Vin. For there’s a grace beyond the brightest powers- 

Syb. Is there? Come then; we ’ll seek it in my flowers. 

[ Exeunt. 







12 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Scene II. 

A smaller room , or boudoir , very elegantly yet chastely fur¬ 
nished ,i leading from the reception-room of Mrs. Vernon's 
suite. The large door of communication, which directly 
faces the spectators , is icule open , and , standing in the en¬ 
trance, with his arms loosely folded , is seen Manfred, 
gazing pensively on Helen, who is seated on a divan , before 
a table , the upper end of the room, or Ze/Y 2 0/ ZA0 

sewing. Various articles of needlework are on the 
table before her , and on the divan beside her , where lies a 
silk dress , partially made up. She does not appear aware 
of Manfred’s presence. He comes forward softly , an^Z m' 7 /i 
S0W0 timidity , yet without appearing to wish to escape no¬ 
tice. As he approaches , Helen Zoom's up, betrays emotion 
and confusion , cmrf, casting down her eyes , endeavors to 
resume her work; but her embarrassment seems to set at 
nought her efforts. 

Manf. I — I thought, Miss Helen- 

[pausing in confusion. 

Hel. [with an effort.] Mrs. Yernon, sir, 
Has just stepp’d out. 

Manf. Ho doubt, will soon return. 

I ‘11 wait her here [taking a seat near the table ; at 
which Helen's embarrassment increases so evi¬ 
dently , that he hastens to add — but his tone 
is tender and timid , and perplexes her so 
much that she lets fall her work, 

- if’t will not hinder you. 




ACT I. SC. 1. 


13 


Your work, Miss Helen, [handing it respectf ully. She 
talces it icith a mute motion of thanks, without 
ever raising her eyes. 

How, were I a judge, 

I ’(1 think you’d have me praise your gentle art. 
There, see! your needle is unthreaded. Stay, 

Let me essay; your fingers seem unsure, [taking her 
needle from her , which in her agitation she has 
been unable to thread. She seems to have no 
power of resistance or refusal. 

Are you not well ? [falteringly and icith great tender¬ 
ness. 

You tremble. Ah! you work 
Too steadily. So young, and so confin’d, 

It is not well, believe me. There! you see 

[drawing a thread through the eye of the needle. 
My hand is steadier than yours, though silk 
And needles have not been my playthings. 

He hands the needle , and in the act of her 
taking it, which she does without raising her eyes , 
their fingers touch. A deep silence, Helen trying vainly to 
use the needle , Manfp.ed gazing at her fixedly. — 
Suddenly — springing up and clasping his 
hands violently together . 

Oh! 

This is pure madness! Helen!- 

Bel. O my God ! 

Sir, [with a sudden effort.\ Mrs. Vernon- You 

will find her, sir, 





14 


THE SILVER HEAD 


In tlie conservatory with Sir Henry. 

They went to see the blooming of the- [Gaining 

courage as she speaks, she ventures here to 
looh up, and meeting the impassioned gaze 
of Manfred, stops short: her work falls 
again — her eyes are cast down — her 
breathing is audible. 

Manf What ? 

[A pause, while he steadily regards her. 
Helen [taking his seal beside her on the divan.], to trifle 
thus — to cheat ourselves — 

Or try to, — for we cannot, — is waste torture. 

Helen — dear Helen! — [ taking her hand. She makes 
a faint effort to withdraw it, and bursts into 
tears.] do not cry ! [staunching her 

tears icith his own handkerchief. 
to know 

I love you — dearly, — can it be such pain ? 

[Helen suddenly disengages herself, and rises. 
Eel. You are — Sir Henry’s nephew — and I am — [ again 

bursting into tears. 

Manf. [springing impetuously to her.] Poor Helen Matti- 
son [mournfully.]: and you are, too, 

Pure Helen Mattison, and sweet, and good. 

And beautiful as gentle; and I am — 

Oh, very wicked thus to steal your heart! 

For God has made me stronger, and I should 

Have crush’d this dangerous feeling- [Eel. with- 

draws her hand, wh ich he had retaken. 





ACT I. SC. 2. 


15 


Ilel. [despairingly.] Let me go. 
Oh me! this house! what shall I do ? 

['wringing her hands and weeping. 
Manf. Ah yes! 

Yes, yes, I am as mad as sinful. Oh sit down! 

[leading her lack to the divan. 
Resume your work, your innocent work ; wipe dry 
Those hitter tears that I have made to flow. 

There! there! becalm; I will withdraw; I’ll meet 

My cousin and detain her- ’T is too late! 

I hear her coming. [ Lowering his voice.] Try, do try, 
to sew. 

He turns his lack on her , and walks to the 
open door , as Sybil enters. She has a lunch of 
flowers in her hand. 

Syl. You are wondrous dull, to be a wise man, Cousin; 
And as for seeking, trust me, never care 
To Cupidize your eyes in blindman’s-buff,— 

They see as well unbandag’d. 

Manfl I’m at fault: 

What mean you ? [He steals an uneasy glance at Helen. 

Syl. Mean ? Why that you were at fault. 
I, with Sir Henry, seek you, and you steal 
Out of our sight, before our faces! then, 

Go hunting for me, in the place I had left! 

For I would swear you came not here to sew. 

Bless us! how pale you look! There [giving him the 
lunch of flowers.] ; ’t will revive you; 
Though you deserve it not. But are you ill? 




16 


THE SILVER HEAT) 




Manf. O yes; the heat is stifling here. Come out, 

The hour is fine for walking: the fresh air 
I think will do me good. Do come! [ endeavoring to 

lead her out. 
Syh. The air? 

Surely you dream: this room can not be close. 

Sit down. You naughty cousin! you have torn 
My best flowers all to pieces! And there, now ! 

You are mad ! or getting so; you ’re biting off 
The heads of those you had left! [taking the stock from 

him , and heating him with it. 
Is’t my turn next? 

Begone; or T shall scream for help. [lie does not pre¬ 
tend to move , hut gazes stealthily at Helen. 

Indeed, 

Sir Henry wants you, and your friend. Do go; 

You ’ll find them in the billiard-room. 

Manf. Yet Co/., 

I would you’d pity me, and come to walk. 

Do now ! [endeavoring again to lead her from her seat. 

Syh. And let you in a revery tear 
My hair from out my head, or gnaw my hands! 

No, sir, the mischief you’ve done here will do: [She 
looks in her turn at Helen , hut, in like man¬ 
ner, stealthily. 

And’t is to pity you to send you off. 

Besides, did you not hear? our uncle waits. 

Manf. [rising.'] You will not come? 

Syh. Xo, flower-breaker, no! 







17 


ACT I. SC. 2. 

Manf. Unkind! [at the door. 

Syb. Ah? Look at this. [Pointing to the remains 
of the noserjay. lie steals a look at Ilelen , 
and Exit,—Ilelen half lifting, timidly , 
her eyes a moment. Sybil observes 
them both. 

Unkind, indeed! 

And so they ’ll bruise a heart, these men, like flowers, 
Strip leaf by leaf off, in a pure abstraction, 

And talk of kindness! [Helen sighs.\ Is it so, my child ? 
Hel. Madam?— [ timidly , without lifting her eyes. 

Syb. I ask’d you- Heavens! what’s all this? 

My silk you are sewing with white cotton, and 
Your fingers drip with blood! You prick them still ! 
Ilelen, what is the matter? [in a hind tone , and taking 

the work and needle from her hands. 
And these tears! 

One on another, hot, upon my hands! 

Hel. [clasping her hands passionately , and looking up, as 
if appealing to Heaven. 

O miserable me! Why was I born! 

Or why not born a lady, and born rich! [letsfall her 
hands , and weeps bitterly. 

Syb. [taking her hand affectionately and speaking with 
great kindness and in a tone of sympathy. 
Hot born a lady? and born rich? You mean, 

I think, to ask, Why not without a heart. 

For’t is your tenderness of heart, my girl, 

Not want of wealth or station, makes you weep. 




18 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Yet you mean something. Come now, dry your eyes : 

[ Wiping Helen's tears with her handkerchief,\ 
just as Manfred had done before. 

Be calm, and speak. 

Hel. O madam ! I’m not fit 
That you should touch me thus with your own hands. 
Syb. [dropping her hand gently . 

Are you not pure then ? lionest-liv’d and chaste ? 
Hel. O yes, or could I sit beside you now ? 

Syb. [taking her hand again.] Why then, 
What am I better than yourself, poor child, 

Save that I have the means to do you good? 

[Helen raises Sybil's fingers rapturously 

to her lips. 

No, no, not that! but this [ putting one arm about 

her.] and this [talcing a hand 
in hers.] — Now speak : 
Fancy that Sybil Vernon is your friend, 

And say, what would you, were you, Helen, born 
A lady, and born rich ? 

Hel. Born rich ? a ladv ! [in a low , 
half-murmured tone; then suddenly, in a sort 
of enthusiasm, while she drops Sybil's hand, 
who gazes on her with interest that be¬ 
comes admiration and wonder as she 
speaks. 

Why should I covet station, but for him ? 

That I might dare to look into his eyes, 

And listen to his voice, nor dread his touch - 



ACT I. SC. 2. 


19 


[ hesitating. 

"Whose love I might he, were I born as high. 

Why long for riches, lady, but to be 
Able to pour them all into his lap ? 

I could not covet to be great myself, 

But to make others greater than myself. 

Syb. But why this? Why not love in your own sphere? 
Hel. Madam, because I find there none to love. 

Syb. I do believe you: for your thoughts, your words, 
Your mien are, Helen, — not above your birth, 

Bor that I know not, —but above the range 
Their life allows the humble; they are those 
Leisure, and gentle breeding, converse long 
With the refin’d and delicate, chiefly give. 

Still, nature, and a — proud love, may do much, [look¬ 
ing at her closely. 

Hel. Ah madam, my romance has made you sport! 

A girl’s ambitious longings, a — a — sketch 

Which Fancy color’d- 

Syb. Hush! be always true : 
Hide what you will, but seek not to deceive. 

Your picture was heart-painted. For my “sport 
How long since I grew wicked in your eyes? 

Or have you ever found me to forget 

That gentle breeding which but now I prais’d ? 

Hel. Oh madam, do forgive me! Who that knows 

Aught of your- 

Syb. Prithee, praise not; but say on. 
Whence then, if not from love and nature, came 





20 


THE SILVER HEAD 


That tone and air that make us equal? Speak. 

\talcing her hand. At first, Helen, by a sud¬ 
den and impetuous movement, raises Sybil's 
fingers to her lips, then she resigns her 
hand to her, and answers. 

Hel. My father has them. Ah, could you but see 
Ilis white head, with its venerable length 
Of hair like an apostle’s, as he reads 
At nightfall in the leisure want allows. 

The lore and poetry of other days, 

Days when he was not happier perhaps, 

But had more ease to cultivate such tastes, 

You would not wonder, that a not rude heart, 

And docile spirit that still sought to please 
Where pleasing was both duty and delight, 

Should catch some faint reflection from his blaze. 

Syb. [smiling, while she places the hand she has disengaged, 
caressingly on the head of Helen.] 

And I shall see him. 

Hel. Madam!— [surprised. 

Syb. And why not? 

Are we not friends? To-morrow I shall call 
At Helen’s house; perhaps the good old man 
Will not be loath to see his daughter’s friend. 

Come, don’t be silly! [putting the end of her fingers 
on Helen's lips.] And besides, my child, 

You will not hither come again to work. 

Hel. [betraying herself in the extremity of her surprise and 
grief] Oh God ! — 



ACT I. SC. 2. 


21 


Syb. [soothingly .] Hush, Helen! you yourself 
shall own 

To-morrow, there is cause, and I am right. 

Be not abash’d, poor child! [hissing her on the fore . 

head. 

Hel. [hastily.'] No madam, I 
Am only grateful. 

Syb. There now, get your things. 

You shall not ay ait your brother, but go home 
Before the night. You are not well to work; 

And those sweet eyes want resting : and, besides — 
Besides — 

Hel. [firmly yet sadly.] Besides, ’t is better that I should. • 

O, would I never!- 

Syb. Nay, do not be rash. 

How know you what I have to say, the morn? 

Now we will part; but to my closet first, 

To wash your secret from those telltale eyes. 

Hel. [despondingly .] Thanks! but O madam, what shall 
wash it out 
From heart and brain! 

Si/b. [putting her arm about Helen's waist, and pressing 
her to her.] Time, Helen, and — my love. 
Exeunt , — Helen hissing Sybil's hand. 




22 


THE SILVER HEAD 



Scene III. 

As in Scene I. — Manfred and Vincent 

Man/. Now you know all. [sadly. 

Vin. All, Manfred? "Whence then came 
The changes of your cheek, now flush’d, now pale, 
Your tremulousness of hand, and wandering eye, 

And still more absent mind — so gone, that when 
Sir Henry ask’d you questions of our game, 

You star’d so wildly stupid, that I look’d 
To see him break his cue upon your head — 

Whence came this ? And whence came you ? Ah, my 
friend! 

Was it well done, to?- But I will not chide you. 

Say, only say, you did not tell your love. 

Man/. Alas! 

Vin. Unhappy! — Yet not guilty, so 
You did not from intention make it known. 

Manf. No, on my honor, no! 

Vin. I know it well. 

Such baseness is not Manfred’s, else’t were vain 
To give you counsel or to urge you more. 

And was this burst of passion welcome? [anxiousl 

Manf. No. 

Oh yes it was! And yet it was not too. 

She wept, yet trembled, sought to go, yet staid, 
Withdrew her hand, yet through the delicate skin 
I felt the hot blood bubble; then her breath, 






ACT I. SC. 3. 


23 


That echo’d passionate sigh for sigh! her eyes, 

That through their down-turn’d lashes, pour’d such rain 
With fire mix’d! — \Manfred has spo~ken with an en¬ 
thusiasm or transport increasing at every 
clause , and now grasps YincenVs hands in 
both of his. 

Yin. Madman! Paint no more. Your eyes 
Glow with unholy rapture, and your heart, 

O Manfred! where is its remorse ? Where now ? 

[Manf. buries his face in his hands. 
This poor girl, this young virgin, whose weak heart 
It is so easy, for a man like you, 

To win, — as’t is to break it, you would not 
Debauch her, Manfred ? 

Manf Vincent! 

Yin. Hush! ’t is I, 

I, Vincent, that have ask’d it, and I answer, 

No, not even in your dreams. What would you then ? 
You would not, you, the accomplish’d and the learn’d. 
The rich, the high in fashion as in name, 

The darling of your uncle, who on you, 

And not on Oscar, leans, as on the prop 
And glory of his now declining years, 

You would not, would you, Manfred Ferguson, 

[quickening his tone.'] You would not make your wife 
of this poor girl ? 

Manf. No, no! [' mournfully . 

Yin. No; that proud old man, whose sense 
Of honor is so nice, that he would curse you — 



24 


THE SILVER HEAD 


lie, that was bred amid licentious wars, 

And nurtur’d his high morals in a camp — 

"Were you to ruin this young innocent girl, 

Yet, did his nephew wed her, do you think 
This proud old man would bless you, Manfred ? he ? 
Itfanf. O peace! No more: I ’ll crush this passion. 

Yin. Yes. 

For’t is not only kindred, friends, the world, 

That you would alienate or sore offend 
By such a marriage, hut your very self. 

What would her rude relations be to you ? 

Could you mix fairly with them, you, a man 
So delicate and nice, so liigh-refin’d, 

That the world deems you a voluptuary, 

And I, who know you better, find in this — 

Your passionate love of beauty of all kinds, 

Your loathing of the coarse, the rude, the mean — 
Senses so exquisite, that commonest things, 

That pass unnotic’d by most delicate minds, 

Give to you provocation, pain, disgust, — 

Could you, this man, take by their horny hands 
Her kindred, and endure their uncouth slang? 

Manf. Death ! I have told you, Vincent, I will break — 

Though it should break my heart- 

Yin. Not yours, nor hers. 
Hearts are not made of such a glassy stuff. 

They crack perhaps a little, but then time 
Cements the portions, and the ruptur’d part, 

Though in its seam unsightly, stands not less. 





ACT I. SC. 3. 


25 


You will break off this passion— Well! at once? 
Manf. At once. Oil yes! 

Re has walked in his excitement towards one end 
of the apartment , and, as he speaks , he seems 
to see something through a window , or other¬ 
wise. Re starts and springs to his hat , 
which is lying on a table. 

Ah! — 

Yin. Manfred! this your word ! 
Manf. [struggling with him.\ But she is going! Vincent, 
[fiercely .] let me go ! 

Vin. Never! What, are vou Manfred? and a man? 

Where is your promise, which is yet scarce cold? 

Sit down. There ? ’t is all over. Courage! So! 

Manf. [who has allowed himself to he seated , throwing his 

head on Vincent ' 1 s shoulder , who leans soothingly 

over him. 

Cruel! vet kind! 

•/ 

Yin. Courageous you, and true. 

The Drop descends. 


Vol. IV.—2 



26 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Scene I. 


Act the Second. 

The little parlor belonging to Saffise's lodgings. 


Oscar. Saffise. 

Saff. And were you such a fool ? 

Osc. I was, Miss Pert. 

Saff. Then you may manage this affair yourself. 

I will not let my chambers, no, not I, [, saucily curtsy¬ 
ing , spreading out her dress , and 
strutting from him. 

To help a fellow in his plot, so dull 
He makes his tongue a fingerpost, to show 
The world his private road! A close one, you ! 

Osc. Your chambers, hussy! And who pays the rent? 

[drawing her bach by her shirts. 
Saff. Why I! I work for it, I’m sure. 

Osc. You work! 

Your lazy fingers would not earn the hair 
That stuffs this pad you mount on your fat loins, 

To make a pismire of you, or a churn. 

Saff. [pouting.] What ails my bustle ? ’t is n’t on your 
back ? 

Osc. Ho, ’faith ! or I must needs cut off my skirts. 

But come, we will not quarrel: I but jested ; 

This hand’s a pretty one — I like it well — 

And work would spoil’t. Here, sit upon my knees. 






ACT II. fc>C. 1. 


27 


Saff. Saucy! I sha’ n’t do any such a thing. 

Osc. Sit, in the devil’s name, then, where you please. 
My brother’s humor is strong on me to-day! 

I shall turn rhymer some of these odd moons. 

Saff. You’d better turn an oysterman, and cry 
Your ware as open as your mouth. 

Osc. Come, come, 

You are getting too severe. Don’t mount my horse; 
’T will throw you. How was I, since you ’re so wise, 
To reckon on this sudden change of mood ? 

Th^t hot-head fool, my brother, who still wears 

His heart upon his lips, and ever blabs 

His uppermost thought, as if the world were fill’d 

With honest dreamers like himself- 

Saff. Did not, 

Frank as you make him, tell this freak to you: 

You found him out with Helen, or I help’d you. 

Osc. Why that is true, [biting his nails from vexation. 

I was an ass, to deem 

He’d prate, though loose of tongue, of an amour 
To such a canting hypocrite as Vincent, 

While I, who am not strict- 

Saff. Ho, devil take you! 
Osc. Was kept in the dark! How, what is to be done? 
All I can say, that Vincent will unsay, 

And Manfred still keeps pure. — 

Saff. [singing contemptuously.] Fol, lol, de lay! 

Osc. What do you mean ? 

Saff. Why that you are “an ass.” 





28 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Did yon not tell me, Manfred’s weakest point 
Mas to let others lead him by the nose ? 

Osc. Yes, though a very sage among his books, 

And brilliant in his talk, all that’s but head ; 

TIis heart is weaker than a child’s, and wax 
To any pressure. 

Saff. Then you set your stamp 

Upon it, when this Mr. Vincent’s done- 

Osc. And give it a new impress. You improve. 

Saff. Perhaps I do. No matter. Then you said, 
This heart, which is as simple as a child’s, 

Is yet as fiery- Pray, what did you say? 

Osc. As TEtna. Ay, a lava-tide, his blood. 

Were’t not his proud refinement keeps him pure, 
And moral sense, as he would name the check, 
Manfred’s of such a mold his passions’ strength 
Would make him the most sensual of men. 

How your eyes sparkle! 

Saff. Never mind my eyes : 

If’t were my wish to step in Helen’s shoes, 

You could not hinder me. Now let us see. 

Why do you want to ruin this poor girl ? 

Osc. Tou pity her? [with great surprise. 

Saff. Not I! my misery loves 
To be in company. 

Osc. You are so keen, 

I needs must trust you. Know, my uncle’s pet 
Is Manfred and not Oscar. — 

Saff. All know that. 





ACT II. SC. 1. 


29 


Osc. Peace! will you?— And my uncle’s folly is 
To hold a stainless name above pure gold. 

Still more than him he loves our cousin Vernon; 

And’t is his wish — [conf used.] But that is not the thing. 

[Sqf. looks at him very sharply. 
Vow, do you see ? If Manfred’s passions rule, 

I am the gainer; for Sir Henry’s rich. 

Saif. I see; more than you think: you say I am keen. 
You hope to get at once the greater part 
Of uncle’s wealth and all of cousin’s too. 

Oscar makes a gesture of rage and vexation , and turns 
from her to hide his emotion. 

But let me tell you, you shall find Saffise 
More than your match, and this rich widow’s bed 
Shall not hold Oscar Ferguson, who’s mine. 

Perhaps too, Helen would not come amiss, 

With brother Manfred to bear all the blame ? 

Osc. Have you the devil in you? [turningfiercely on her. 

Sufi. [coldly.] Vo; have you? 

They gaze at one another a long moment , Saffise with her 
arms akimbo , Oscar with his thumbs in his 
waistcoat-armholes. 

Osc. [bursting into a laugh.] Safi*., you ’re a shrewd oue, — 
yet a fool withal. 

Come, toss this womans-jealousy aside, 

And aid me in my plans: I ’ll make you rich. 

Safi'. Well, but remember! there shall be no match 
’Twixt you and that proud lady ? 

Osc. Sure there slia’ n’t. 



30 


THE SILVER HEAD 


You foolish child! D’ you find that Oscar tires 
As yet of these round arms, thy swelling loins [putting 
his right arm about her waist , while he takes 
with his left hand a hand of hers, and they 
walk up and down together. 

(Despite the bustle), and those parted breasts, 

Of that round head, this silken hair, those eyes, 

Whose saucy light might blind a thousand Helens, 

Though she of old were one (especially now 

Hers must be clean gone from their sockets) — [She 

strikes him on the forehead. 

pshaw ! 

Can I not love, and have my joke as well? 

I have seen men fondle lasses, pipe in mouth, 

And they, the girls, took one with the other fair, 

The smoke and the caress — those eyes, Saffise, 

And these red lips that pout a juicier kiss [kissing her. 
Than any cousin’s — 

Saff. [turning aside , and making with her lips a move¬ 
ment and sound of disgust and 
contempt. 

Whom you cannot kiss, 
nave done with foolery, [shaking him off.] 

You want these rooms? 

Osc. And Helen in them. But in truth, you jade, 

It does surprise me, Helen, who is not 

Exactly of your sort- 

Saff. But may be soon. 

Osc. Stulf! you mistake me. I meant, who is not 





ACT II. SC. 1. 


31 


In speech, in thoughts, in manners, like her class — 
[She is about angrily to interrupt him: he claps 
his hand on her mouth. 

Don’t be a fool! —that she, this gentle girl, 

Should make a playmate of a slut like you. 

Saff. [mastering her emotion.'] And do you think I seem to 
her as now ? 

I suit my manners, blackguard, to my friends. 

Osc. Pshaw, pretty pouter! can’t you take a jest? 

Saff. Yes, hut true things are sometimes said in jest, 

And you, who are always jesting, never jest 
Without a hitter malice that stings sore. 

If human snakes could kill, this well I know, 

I should have died of poison- 

Osc. Long ago. 

Ha, ha! — But there’s a rattle in my tail: 

Folk get out of my way. — But, not to make 
A rattle of your tale, go on, and say, 

What intimacy have you with this girl ? 

Saff. She knows me as a seamstress, like herself. 

Once only did she, when we work’d together, 

Visit me here; but I have often call’d 

On Helen- 

Osc. Ay, she has a brother. 

Saff. Devil! 

Take care — I may be even with you yet.— 

The old musicplate-engraver likes me not, 

I see that plain, but Helen treats me well. 

Osc. And you have never talk’d to her of men ? 





32 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Saif. D’ you take me for a lunatic, or fool ? 

Girls do not talk, to innocence like hers, 

Of anything that may commit themselves. 

Osc. Hum! 

Saff. But you don’t believe in innocence. 

Osc. Hot I! but Manfred does: one fool’s enough 

In the family. — So, she takes Saffise to be ?- 

Saff. Just what she is : what should she know of you ? 

And, but for you, I am as good as she. 

Osc. Phe-ew! [whistling. 

Saff. I swear, I ’ll strike you with my fist! 

Osc. ’T would spoil that pretty hand I just now prais’d. — 
Can you induce this Helen, prude or maid, 

To visit you again? 

Saff. When? 

Osc. How — to-night — 

Within an hour. 

Saff. Yes, so it be not dark: 

Her father will not trust her out at night. 

Osc. He is wise. 

Saff. What then ? 

Osc. I 'll bring my brother here. 

Saff. Ah! 

Osc. Don’t be scar’d; he would not look at you. — 
But this is likely? She will come ? 

Saff. She will. 

Osc. Then look to see us both here in an hour. 

We 'll leave her with my brother here alone ; 

And, if he is wiser than I was with you, [putting on 

his hat. 





ACT II. SC. 1. 


33 


He is — different in blood. [Exit, carelessly. 

Safi. As in all else, [loolcing after 
him with an expression of strong contempt, 
mixed with anger. 

Mean, dirty, spiteful, coxcomb half, lialf rogue! 

“ Not look on me !” you viper ? That for you ! 

[snapping her fingers. 


Re-enter Oscak. 

Osc. I interrupt you. You were praising me. Go on. 
Safi. As you deserve. What brings you back ? 

Osc. Just this. 

If Helen do not come, make you a signal 
Out of your window, whistle, cough, or sing, — 

Or — snap your fingers, that will do as well — 

Just as you practis’d now. 

Safi. Or, say I pour 
A basin of nice soapsuds on your head ? 

Osc. Why that will answer too. We ’ll not come in. 
Good bye now, gentle dove, and don’t forget. 

“That for you!” [snapping his fingers, as he retires. 
Ha, ha, ha! [Exit. 

Safi. I ’ll hear you go. — 
[holding the door ajar and listening. 
At last! [slamming it. 

—I have known a Creole, like myself, 

That in New Orleans would have stabb’d you dead, 
For half you have said to me. But I ’ll do more. 

You dl not come in? Yes, but you shall: I ’ll see 



34 


THE SILVER HEAD 


"Whether this Manfred will not look on me. 

Sharp as you are, you did but half pierce through 
My secret — or car’d not to go so deep — 

For daring is your sole virtue. But for that, 

I would not touch you with this old worn shoe, {kick¬ 
ing it violently off her foot. 
You shall not get your cousin, nor shall he {throwing 

herself on a couch. 

Keep Helen, — though, for I do hate the minx! 

He shall, if he will, make her (there I ’ll help him) 
Just what his cursed brother has made me. 

Then I will make him loathe her, silly thing, 

With her dull eyes that would not scare a flea! 

The noble fellow ! he shall love a girl 

With blood as fiery as his own, —that’s mine! 

And fling her off, as I would my old shoe. [kicking off 

the other , with like force of action. 
As my old shoe! [singing wildly. 

as my old shoe ! [same. 

[Crying violently.'] Oh God! 

I would I were a shoe! the poorest shoe 
On the meanest foot in the world, I do, I do! 

Then I should have no feeling of the foot 

That trod me in the dirt — nor of that dirt! [sobbing 

hysterically. 


Scene closes. 



ACT IT. SC. 2. 


35 


Scene II. 

The humble parlor of Marie Mattison. 

1 

The old man is seated at a table reading in a small bool:. 
Helen behind him , leaning over his shoulder. 

Mel. Repeat those lines, my father. 

Matt. Gladly, child. 

Heading .] As sensual passion sinks us to the ground, 

So a true love exalts us to the skies: 

All that God gives of pure and holy lies 
Within the verge of its enchanted round. 

Though low the object, yet shall there be found, 

In love, the charm to raise it in thine eyes. 

But oh, too froward youth, if thou he wise, 

Let no mean reach thy aspirations bound! 

Dare to love high above thee! so thy aim 
Shall lift thy soul to equal its desire, 

And make even failure glory and not shame, 

All thy heart’s ore refined by the fire 
Of the proud altar where thy prayers aspire, 

And gilt by its reflection even thy name. 

Mel. \repeating slowly , and in a low tone. 

“ Dare to love high above thee ”- Was’t well said ? 

Matt. I thought so once, my daughter, and do still. 

- How is this ? the leaf is blister’d with your tears ! 
What ails my child! Why should this make her 
weep ? 



36 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Hel. He was a noble spirit that thus wrote! 

"What was his name? 

Matt. Mark Mattison, they say. 

Ilel. Not you, my father ? [ eagerly. 

Matt. As I was in youth. 

Matt. And men receiv’d your great thoughts? — 

Matt. With neglect. 
It is the fate of better hards than I. 

Hel. While senseless pens win competence and fame! 

O me, my father, I was very weak 

To grieve for want of riches! [kissing Ms silver hair. 

Matt. Helen — child! 

I never knew you to repine before? [inquiringly. 

Hel. I never did, till-- Father, did you mean — 

[ hesitatingly , and hiding her face on 

his shoulder. 

’T is better to love hopelessly above one, 

Where the affection is sincere and pure, 

Than to- I am very silly —do not mind me. 

[sobMng. 

Matt. Very unhappy, Helen, much I fear. 

But let me answer your half-question first; 

Then I have one myself to put in turn.— 

Not better for one’s peace perhaps and ease, 

But better for high thoughts, for all that lifts 
The soul above the prose of vulgar life. 

For from affliction only God has will’d 
The mind should take to it its angel-wings, 

Whose feathers are weigh’d down and earthy made 





ACT II. SC. 2. 


37 


By the slow-gathering dust of happy ease. 

Fruition feeds the sense to starve the mind, 

And dull inaction makes the stagnant pool, 

Where storms rage not, hut freshness neither plays, 
Nor beauty smiles, as in the dimpled wave. 

They who aspire, in love, as in all else, 

In disappointment purge from dross their souls, 

And gain by self-denial strength like gods. — 

Such is my comment. And now tell me, child, 

What is a hopeless, high-plac’d love to you? 

Helen, who has lifted her head and listened with eagerness 
and awakened spirit till now , here lets it sink 
again upon the old man's shoulder . 

Why have you wept? Why are you weeping now? 
Why came you home so pale and thoughtful-sad ? 
Why for this week past have your cheeks grown thin? 
Why do I hear you, through my chamber-wall, 

Moan in your sleep, and, when the morning comes, 
Find your eyes swollen with the trace of tears? 

Why, in one word, has Helen, in one week, 

Grown up a woman from a simple child ? 

Look up, my daughter, and now tell me why 
You put that question to a man like me? 

Have you- \]iis voice slightly agitated ] 

God help us! —has your work, my child, 
Led you to Colonel Ferguson’s too oft? 

J{el. [throwing herself at liis knees and burying her face in 
his lap> and weeping bitterly. 

Father, forgive me! 




38 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Matt. Helen! and for what? 

You have not sinn’d, or you would never dare 
To kiss my hands thus and embrace my knees. 

Mel. O no, no! but I am unhappy. 

Matt. Yes.- 

Which is it? [very brief pause.] 

’T is not Oscar ? [anxiously. 

Mel. [eagerly raising her head.] Heavens, no ! 

Matt. Manfred — Ah! how you tremble! hapless child ! 
This is indeed a high and hopeless love! — 

Manfred the world speaks -well of, — and well speaks ; 
But he is lofty, his proud uncle’s heir, 

And — and — they say — his cousin Vernon- 

Mel. No! 

[springing up, and folding her arms wildly 
round the old man. 

Bather, you kill me! do not say so! no! 

No, no, no! he does not love her! 

Matt. Ah! [anxiously. 

Does he love you, my daughter! Has he darVl ?- 

Helen, for answer, hugs him passionately, and hisses 
him again and again on cheek and brow, — then 
leans her head on his shoulder. 

But he is honorable; and absence — time- 

My child, you must return there nevermore, [passing 

his hand soothingly over her hair. 
Mel. Never more, father! [sadly.] Oh I never shall! 

That lady too — so good like him, and true — 






ACT II. SC. 2. 


89 


She bade me not return. 

Matt. She knows it then ? 

Mel. I fear so ; but she only said, the while 
She kiss’d me like a sister, call’d me friend, 

That on the morrow she would visit you - 

Matt. He? Are you not deceiv’d? And yet I hope- 

Mel. These were her words: “ To-morrow I shall call 
At Helen’s house; perhaps the good old man 
Will not be loath to see his daughter’s friend.” 

Matt. Bless, bless her, God! my child may yet be sav’d. — 
Go now, and dry your tears, and gain composure. 

Your brother must not know- 

Mel. Oh no! oh no! — 

But first, your pardon, father. [kneeling at his feet. 
Matt, [raising and hissing her.'] Mine, my child ! 

’T is I should rather ask the like of thee. 

Is it your fault your nerves are not of steel, 

Your blood not torpid, and these sunny locks 
Hot silver like your father’s? Hush ! he comes. 

Go to your room. [Exit Helen, and 

Enter Bichard Mattison. 

Rich. So Helen has got home? [looking 
at the door ichere she has 
disappeared. 

I stopp’d an hour earlier than my wont, 

And found her gone. I hope it is for good. 

Matt. Why so, my son ? 


f 






40 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Rich. 0 sir, perhaps there ’s cause 
To fear she may have been there once too olt. 

Matt. Sir, sir! for shame! 

Rich. Shame it may be, for all. 

I ’ll tell you. As I left the accursed house- 

Matt. You forget, Richard, [gravely and with dignity. 

Rich, [carelessly.] Pardon, but I ’in warm. 
Matt. That you are always. 

Rich. "Well, well, ’t is my blood. 

I met, then, Mr. Ferguson. — 

Matt, [hastily.] Not Manfred? 

Rich. No; 

Not that proud jackanapes; the younger man. 

Matt. He does not please me. 

Rich. Nor the other me. 

Yet neither of us knows them, save by name 
And sight. He stopp’d me short, told who he was, 
And said he knew of danger to my sister. 

Matt. Ah! 

Rich. I grew angry; but he check’d me straight, 
Boldly, as one who knew that he was right. — 
Matt. Boldly, as one who felt he was a man. 

Say that, and you say all, I fear, you should. 

Rich. It may be so ; but he is frank and rough, 

Talks as a freeman should, nor picks his words, 

As who would say, “Mark! I am gentle-born,” 
Like his more handsome brother. 

Matt. Have a care, 

And trust an old man’s and a father’s word. 





ACT II. SC. 2. 


41 


If all’s not gold that glitters, neither, son, 

Is all true steel that has the temper’d look 
And close grain of the fin’d and coal-burn’d iron. 

Rich. Well, well! [walking up and down. 

Matt. Impatient hoy! one day! [holding Iris 

finger up yearningly .]- Proceed: 

And in few words. 

Rich. The fewer please me best. 

I promis’d I would meet him in an hour, 

In an appointed place which he propos’d, 

And learn this danger. Then I hasten’d home 
To see if Helen had not loiter’d, firm 
That she shall not return, if you approve, 

To any more such labor done abroad, 

And with new rage, to think she might have spar’d 
Herself and me and those white hairs this shame. 
Matt. There is no shame, will never be from her! 

Rich. Shall never be, I hope; but there is shame 
In this mere speech about her, and her pride 
Has been the cause of all. Hid I not pray, 

Pray as a beggar, she would let my toil 
Support us both ? 

Matt. Ho; if it was a prayer, 

It was the most passionate one I ever heard. 

But your intent was good. Yet blame not her: 

’T was worthy of your sister and my child, 

Hot to live idle, when our common means 
Scarcely suffice us for our common wants. 

But who is that? 




42 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Rich, [joyfully.'] Saffise. I know her step. 

[moving eagerly to the door. 

Matt. I like her not, my son. 

Rich, [softly.] Hush! She is here. 

As he opens the door , the scene closes. 


Scene III. 

Same as in Act I. Sc. I. 

Manfeed alone , seated in an a ttitude of great dejection. 

Enter Sybil. 

Syb. What, cousin, still pensoso ? still amort ? 

[Manf. rises. 

But you shall break no more bouquets for me. 

I would as soon entrust you with my heart. 

Manf. And ’t were a perilous trust, my lady gay, 

[with a forced smile. 

To one who never knew to keep his own. 

[Resumes again his abstracted air. 
Syb. Yet I will wager half the greenhouse-yield, 




ACT II. SC. 3. 


43 


You never treat it as you did my flowers. 

Perhaps that kindness is for tenderer hearts. 

Manf. Perhaps it is. 

Syb. Perhaps it is ? And said, 

As if you were confessing to the priest! 

I was in hopes, hut now, the gracious dawn 
Of my fair presence had arous’d your brain; 

But the dull sluggard turns, and sleeps again. 

Manf. Excuse me, cousin Yernon, but I’m sad, 

« l 

And cannot bandy wit with you to-day. 

Syb. And has not cousin Yernon then a heart, 

That can be sad with Manfred, if he will ? 

Try her. 

Manf. And gladly, were it but a grief 
That she might share. 

Syb. How know you, till you try ? 
Or is it that you deem my soul too light 
Because I jest by the hour? See me now; 

I am, my cousin, quite as sad as you, 

And truly so, and solely for your sake. 

Manf. You are a noble creature! [seizing Tier hand. 

Would to God!- 

Syb. Hush! let your brother talk that way : from you 
I need no flattery, for you are true. 

Sit down now, Manfred; let me sit by you, 

And let me go back where I just began,— 

But sadly, not in jest. The flowers you broke 
Were such a natural emblem of man’s love, 

At least for the too-confiding of our sex, 


\ 




44 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Or weak and evil-guided, that I made 

One of them on the spot, and spoke it out 

For Helen’s profit. [Manf. starts. She loolcs at him 

in silence. 

Manf. Helen! And she?- 

SyT). Wept. 

Manf. Poor Helen! [half unconsciously. 

Syh. Poor indeed ! that in the world 
Had nothing hut a heart to call her own, 

And, being generous, gave it all away. 

Manf. [vehemently moved.] Sybil! what mean you ? 

Recovering.] What is that to me? 

Syh. Oh! hut I thought that you, whose heart is good, 
And feels spontaneously, like a god’s, 

All human sorrow, would have griev’d to hear 
Of such a gentle creature so distress’d, — 

A girl so guileless, that her inmost soul 
Is visible as her lips, so loving too, 

That fondness wakes in her for being ask’d. 

Manf. [musingly.] True — true! — and very beautiful! — 
her voice 

The sweetest, save your own, I ever heard. 

Syh. It is a hard fate for an humble girl, 

With such a soul as this poor seamstress owns, 

To see, as happier, richer women see, 

Hear with like voice, and feel with sense as keen, 

The tempter Love, and have no other choice, 

Than to forego his ecstasies, or pay 
With shame and ruin every thrill and sigh. 




ACT II. SC. 3. 


45 


Ifanf. Sybil! —you torture me. [in a very low voice. 

Syb. I must, to heal, [softly. 
Cousin, you are a man, in form and mien, 

Fram’d of the kind, not to make woman false, 

As says the playbook, but to keep them frail. 

When everywhere around you where you move 
You see the best among us, and most proud, 

Eager to catch your glances, and the hearts 
Of the more youthful, to whom love is new, 

Flutter with pleasure at your mere approach, 

Is it to be expected a poor girl, 

Such as is Helen, should be more unmov’d ? 

That pressure of your fingers tells me, cousin, 

You know it is in kindness that I pain you. 

Oh it were very wicked in us both, 

If Helen ever should come here again, 

Or you go near to her! [He malces a movement of pain¬ 
ful surprise.'] Now, do not speak: 

But promise me who, as you often say, 

And truly, know you better than all else, 

Save one alone, and know you to hold dear, 

Promise you will exert your generous soul 
To curb this passion; and to time and me 
' Leave Helen’s cure. 

Manf. I will; for you and Vincent 
Are truly friends, who dare to give me pain, 

And punish me, like Heaven, to do me good. 

But do — be kind to Helen. 

Syb. Kind ? I love the girl, 



46 


TIIE SILVER HEAD 


Have vow’d to be her friend — her mate, I mean, 

Hot patroness, — and friend I will be. 

Manf. [in extremity of astonishment. ] You? 

You peerless creature! [hissing her hand rapturously. 

Where shall be the man 
That shall deserve you! 

Syb. Truth, coz, he must be 
A different man from you. I should not choose 
To play the game of life with such a knave 
Of hearts as you. 

Manf. Ho, a more sober suit [assuming a 

little of her gayety. 

Is like to win more points. I know of one. [signifi¬ 
cantly, while Sybil endeavors , by rising , to 
conceal confusion. 

Syb. Our talk is done in time: there ’s Cato coming 
With his crook’d legs, to call us both to dine. 

Let us spare his studies on the Line of Beauty. 

Manf. Be gay; for you deserve it. [Reaching his hand to her. 
Syb. [as she talces it. ] And be true 
To your own self; and who more gay than you? 

[ Exeunt , hand in ha?id. 



ACT III. SC. 1. 


47 


Act the Third 
Scene I. Manfred's Study. 

The furniture indicates the character of the owner's mind; 
everything being rather elegant than costly, and rather 
costly than fine. A table in the centre covered with 
boohs, drawings, music, etc. In various parts of the 
room, boohs, musical instruments, pictures, copies of 
antique vases, statuettes, etc. Among the latter, are con¬ 
spicuous — the group of the Graces, the Venus of the 
Medici, the (so called) Antinous, and the Laocoon. 

Enter Oscar. 

Osc. I wonder lie lias appetite to dine. 

Till his return, I ’ll have my talk with you, 

Meet emblems of your owner’s showy parts. [tahing 
off his hat and bowing with moch reverence 
to the objects round the room. He then 
bows, in the same manner, to each par¬ 
ticular cast as he addresses it. 

You, faultless three, \to the Graces.] whose delicate 
outline bears 

The unmistakable charm of yet green youth, 

Are symbols of my brother’s classic taste, 

And the fine sensualism which he would term 


48 


THE SILVER HEAD 

Voluptuous love of beauty. I salute, [to the Venus. 
Madam, in your immaculate limbs, his lust, 

Veil’d with a simulate pudency as yours. 

In thee, thou melancholy minion-boy! [to the Antinous. 
His hero-grace, as cousin Vernon calls it. 

Sweet liar! But ah, before thy mass I bow, 

[to the Laocoon. 

Thou double type of Manfred’s self and me! 

I am the snake, that round those muscular limbs, 

And body’s writhing trunk, shall twine, and twine — 
In spirit, or the laws might make me hang — 

Till little is left for uncle to admire. — 

The gods and godlike of the place saluted, 

Let’s see what’s on the table to adore. 

Why this is good! [ bending over a booh. 

IT, E,—here’s Helen’s name 
Writ on this leaf of Dante! Here ’s her nose! 

And hair, and scallop’d lips, and girlish cheeks! 

But these are not her eyes. The lovesick youth 
Doubtless could never long enough gaze there, 

To catch the physical shape would make them hers. 
Drawn on his rarest copy! [looking at the title-page 
of the booh.'] — on the page 
Which tells Francesca’s very innocent love! 

By your good leave I ’ll trace a comment here. 

Takes up a leadpencil from the table , and musing a 
brief moment loriies on the page. 

There, that will sting him.— Yes, ’t is Helen’s face, 

[contemplating the page again. 



ACT III. SC. 1. 


49 


Done con amore , with an artist’s touch. 

These lips! I mean to touch their freshness too; 

But’t is not with a Brookman’s lead I ’ll do it. 

And here’s again her name— writ once, twice o’er. 
Why this is capital! [aloud. 

Enter Manfred. 

Manf. What is so? 

Osc. 3 This, [indicating the 
leaf with his finger. 

Where Dante takes the pains, in black and white, 

To show the pretty seamstress tickles still. 

But have you din’d already? 

Manf. Yes, I am ill. 

But Vincent’s spirits make me little miss’d. 

And you ? 

Osc. Too late, — must make the pantry serve. 
Besides, your friend’s a side-dish rather stale: 

I like no warm’d-up hashes at my meals. 

Nor do I see that you digest him quite. 

Manf. How so? [with surprise. 

Osc. [looTcing down on the hoolc. 

H, E, L, Hel, — E, N, en; Helen: 

That’s Helen’s name I think that’s written here. 

And this is Helen’s pretty face as well. 

Not much of Vincent in all this, I think. 

Don’t sigh, man : Vincent is a fool; and you — 

Look at that figure [pointing to the Venus. — 

— and now gaze on these, [the Graces. 




50 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Can all the musty maxims of your friend 
Give dreams like these? or is the waking sense 
Of flesh and blood made in that image less 

[pointing again to the Venus. 
Than a prude’s proverbs or a cold friend’s cant? 
Enjoy your fortune, or let some one else. 

Manf. Oscar! — [biting his lips with anger. 

Osc. Frown, if you will; but to my sense 
A seamstress and the friend of my Saffise 
Seems scarce entitled to such grave respect. 

Manf. What do you say! a friend of- [seizing his arm. 

Osc. [-with distinctness , emphasizing each icord. 

My fair friend. 

No doubt they have rare sport at your expense, 

When, meeting in the evening, Helen tells 
How you have made a goddess of her, when 
She was so willing to be thought a girl! 

Manf. Stop, sir! I am choking! This is your foul tongue. 
Osc. Ah? I must look: you have no mirror here? 

[affecting to loolc about him. 
I really thought, this morning, it look’d clean. 
Brother, stop in your turn! your walk, I mean, 

And beating of your forehead like a fool. 

Now let me ask you one plain question: this; 

Have you not ever in boyhood, when your nose 
Was in our mother’s applebarrels, observ’d 
How the bad fruit soon rotted all the sound 
By merely lying next it? Well, I say 
Saftise is a bad woman, and her friend 




ACT III. SC. 1. 


51 


Is Helen Mattison, your saintly maid. 

Manf Prove it! 

Osc. I swear it! 

Manf. Prove it! [ grasping his wrist. 
Osc. And I will. 

You shall, this very minute if you like, 

Put your own questions to the Creole; nay, 

’T is ten to one, what will be proof complete, 

You ’ll find your angel merry in her rooms. 

And if you do, I hope you will not pray? 

Manf. Don’t mock me, Oscar; it is sore to find 

One’s dream of virtue a mere- 

Osc. Fiddlestick! 

Whoever dreamt of virtue in these girls, 

But such a dreamer by wholesale as you! 

Come, are you ready ? 

Manf. In five minutes, yes. 

Wait for me here, [going out impetuously. Stops sud¬ 
denly.'] Ah now I do recall, [turning round. 
I promis’d I would not seek out this girl. 

Osc. And who desires you to? I am sure not I! 

You merely go to chat with bright Saffise; 

And that you owe to me, to prove my truth. 

If ten to one your angel will be there, 

Why one to ten she ’ll not. But, if she be, 

I hope again, for your own manhood’s name, 

You will not make a goddess of a — girl. 

Go now, make haste; you ’ll find me in the hall. 

[Exit Manf. 




52 


THE SILVER HEAD 


For were I, weathercock, to wait you here, 

Some other wind might come to drive you back. 

As he prepares to go out , hat in hand , 

Enter Vincent and Sybil. 

And here blow too ; sou’ westers, by the mass; 

Syh. Oscar! — We thought to find your brother here. 
Osc. And so did I; but here, you see, he is not. 

I ’ll go and seek him if you like, and say, 

That Parson Vincent is about to pray. [Exit Oscar. 
Syh. Ida, ha! But Oscar, [ calling after him.] Uncle ask’d 
for you. — 

You’d think he fear’d impressment for the clerk ! 
Shall we proceed without him ? Which of these 

[looking round her at the statuettes. 
Divinities deserves your office first ? 

Yin. [bowing gallantly .] That which has enter’d in the 
temple last. 

Syh. I am congregation then, and idol too. 

Begin, good father; lo the missal spread, [taking up 

the Dante. 

But what is this ? a desecrated page! 

And here is Helen’s name — and face! Alas! 

The arrow was well-barb’d. And verses too ! 

Oh! this is Oscar’s malice. Look there, sir. 

[handing the hook to Yin. 

Yin. [reading. 

Proud man! thus, on the tale of Frances’ woes, 
To write your Helen’s name! for Dante shows, 



ACT ITT. SC. 1. 


5:3 


His dame, though marry’d, found a page to woo her, 
But yours has nothing else that can undo her. 

Malice indeed, with subtle purpose too ; 

For Virtue often wavers at a laugh. 

Syb. ’T is as I judg’d, from Manfred’s words, —you know 
My cousin’s peril ? 

Vin. Only since this hour. 

Sy7). We will speak more of it. As for this blow, 

It shall not reach him. [Takes up a 7) it of rubber from 
the table , and proceeds to erase the rhymes. 
Vin. Generous creature!—Pardon. 

[in confusion. 

O that your cousin us’d my eyes to see! 

Syb. What ? that his brother is a heartless rake, 

Who makes all honest feelings theme of jest? 

Vin. Yet with not less of venom, that he jests. 

FTo, I was more presumptuous in my thoughts, 

And wonder’d at a blindness more complete, 

At least less natural. [He looks at her with much ear¬ 
nestness , and SyT).for a moment seems abashed. 

Syb. Really, in this room [ assuming 

sprightliness. 

There must be some infection! for I see 
As dimly now as Manfred ; or you talk 
Too darkly, ’t may be, for my womans-sense. 

You shall wait cousin Manfred here alone; [going. 
One blind is quite enough at once to cure. 

She comes bade, and in a more natural manner , extending 
her hand frankly to Vincent: 



54 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Dear Mr. Vincent, all depends on you : 

Promise you will not, while this danger lasts, 

Leave Manfred to himself. 

Yin. [at first seems as if he would hiss the 
hand he has taken , hut only 
hoics over it. 

No, on my soul ! 

[Exit Sybil. 

Ah, little do you know that Vincent has 
To battle with two enemies, and shield 
His friend not only, but himself as well! 

Conquest how glorious! victory over self; 

And, for the generous Manfred, won-ah me! 

The noblest creature ever yet the heavens 
Shed light on — and, I think, the fairest. Strange! 
Most strange indeed, a man so keenly quick 4 
To the perception of all beautiful forms, 

The very atmosphere of whose study [lookiny around 

him.] breathes 

Exquisite tastes, and passions well refin’d, 

A man of such romantic virtues too, 

Should have preferr’d, to her- But let me see. 

[taking up the Dante and looking 
at it attentively. 

If this be Helen’s face, and truly drawn, 

’T is very sweet: but not more so than hers. 

And then, her generous qualities! which oft 
He makes his theme of praise ; too oft perhaps, 

Since I have learn’d to muse on them so much. 





ACT III. SC. 1. 


55 


I *11 question him of this. But where is he? [ looking 
toward the door , then relapsing into self-commu¬ 
nion again. 

She must have lov’d him, had he sought her love: 

A nd it is right he should, — both right and best. 
Sighing i\ My fingers thrill yet with her touch. — My God ! 
Let me not, while I seek from Manfred’s eyes 
To pluck the mote, grow very blind myself!— 

Queen of the Passions! [ apostrophizing the Venus. 

still thy natural sway 
Makes man forget his honor! — No, not so! 

Reason shall aid him, where not willing-weak, 

Nor conscience torpid by a long neglect. — 

I ’ll seek this loiterer. — What a soft, small hand! 

[sighing. 

Manfred, where art thou? 

In a melancholy tone .] Why wast thou away ? 

[Exit. 



56 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Scene II. 

Saffise'8 parlor—As in Act II. Sc. I. 

Helen and Saffise 

coming from an inner room , whose door is risible. Helen 
has her hat and shard on. 

Hel. How I have seen those muslins, which I think, 
Saffise, will well become you, I must go. 

Remember! I shall help you make them up ? 

Saffi. Ho. "When you have so much to do, indeed! 

Hel. Yes, but then what I do is all for pay. 

And I should like, so much, to do some work 
To help a friend, or merely for her love: 

My fingers would fly twice as fast. 

Seif. I ’ll see. 

But why, dear, do you hurry so? your brother 
Will call for you, you know. 

nel. But not so soon. 

I am not well [sighing .]; and but that I am so, 

My father never would have let me come: 

He thought’t would do me good. ’T is almost dark. 
Good-bye, Saffise. Ah! there is brother now ! 

[( delighted , and moving as if to go. 
Ho, there are two. [recoiling. 


ACT III. SC. 2. 


57 


Enter, Manfred and Oscar. 

Manfred and Helen gaze at one another in mute amaze * 
ment, which in Manfred immediately changes 
to a look of dismay and sorrow , ichile 
Helen drops her eyes. 

Osc. [pulling Manf. aside. 

What say you now? [ Going to Saff.] Saffise. 

5 He touches Saffise on the shoulder as he passes 
her and beckons to her to follow him to the inner room. 

She remonstrates with him in dumb-show. He gesticulates 
violently , but without noise, in return, and after some 
further resistance, he pushing her by the arm, 
and whispering, she reluctantly follows, 
bending her eyes on Manfred as 
she withdraws. 

The door closes without noise on Oscar and Saffise. 

Manf. Miss Mattison- [gravely. 

Hel. [who, from her position as well 
as emotion, is not aware of the 
retreat of Saffise. 

Sir! — I am going- 

Manf. Stay! 

Helen, — [laying his hand on her arm. She trembles , 
and stands as if incapable of motion, but 
with her face still turned to the icings 
of the scene as in the act of going out. 
sadly. ] Why are you here? 

[She looks up with surprise. 





58 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Is this — Saffise — 

Is she your friend ? 

Eel. 0 yes; I like her much. 

Manf. [in turn surprised. 

What a strange answer! [looks at her inquiringly 

Do you visit her — 

Here — often — in this house ? 

Eel. Not very often. 

This is the second time that I am here. 

I must go now — ’t is getting dark. Saffise. [turning 

round. She starts. 

Where is she gone ? And sir, — your brother- 

[in great alarm. 

She looks at Manfred once , earnestly , who has his eyes hent 
on her , his arms folded , then rushes to go out. 
Manfred intercepts her. 

Manf. Stop. 

Answer me but one question ere you go. 

What brought you to this place, my child? 

Eel. This place ? 
[looking around her with increasing 
terror , at which Manfred takes her 
hand , h is expression losing its 
harshness. 

It is Saffise’s room. She had me come 
To look at dresses she is making up. 

Manf. [eagerly.] Ah! Did she go for you—this girl? 

Eel. She did. 
[looking at him with fresh surprise. 





ACT III. SC. 2. 


59 


I was not well [confused f and did not wish to come. 
Manf Why did you then ? 

Hel. How could I, sir, refuse 
Such a slight favor! and my father thought 
My spirits would be better if I came. 

Was it then wrong? and may I now go home? 

Manf [clasping her hand , and gazing admiringly in her 

face , at ichich she shrinks. 

Go home? and wrong? you innocent child! go home? 
Yes, and I will go with you; and you shall, 

Before I leave you, promise, Helen dear, 

Never to see again this wicked girl. 

Do not so tremble! What have you to fear ? 

Do you not see that I am with you now, 

I, Manfred Ferguson, and none beside? [ she trembles 

and looks round. 

What then shall harm you ? 

Hel. O sir, let me go. 

Do not retain my hand! and do not speak, 

O do not, sir [ bursting into tears.~\ in such a voice to me! 
I am very weak, you see, my nerves are shook, 

And though it shames me much, I needs must weep. 
Manf. God help you, Helen! and God help me too! 

For I am weak as you; and here — alone!- 

[gazing at her passionately , and folding her 
hands in both of his. 

Hel. [endeavoring to extricate herself 

Sir — let us go, at once! —for Heaven’s sake! 

For your sweet cousin’s sake! do let me go! 




GO 


THE SILYEIl HEAD 


Manf. My cousin’s! Yes, yes, come! to stay 

Would make me, what I never yet have been, 

And shame to speak — a liar of me! Come. 

Are you wrapt warm ? \timidly endeavoring to adjust 

her shatcl. She trembles. 
this shawl is very thin. 

But yet, the night-air is not chill. And were it, 

’T were better face it than stay here. Come, come! 

[lie draics her arm through his , and Exeunt. 

Enter 

Oscar, bursting from the inner room, followed coolly by 
Saffise, who shrugs her shoulders. 

Osc. Curse on your house! 

Saff. Your folly, man, curse that! 

Did I not want to stay ? 

Osc. V faith, you did! 

You hop’d to catch my brother in your nets. 

Saff. No matter what I hop’d, sir. Had we staid. 

Would those nice questions have been put, d’ you think, 
Or the girl answer’d ? 

Osc. How could I foresee 
The milk-and-water fool would parley thus? — 

The patriarch Joseph was a rake to him! 

Saff. Goodness! d’you read the Bible? 

Osc . Do you dare 

To pass your jokes on me at such a time? 

Now, when my plans are all blown to the devil? 

Saff. I don’t see that. You ruin’d me in the street, — 



ACT III. SC. 2. 


61 


Met me there first, and then we met again, 

And from the street came houses, — and then came 
Saffise to he- 

Osc. What Manfred may make Helen. 

I ’ll follow the game, and see what comes of it. 

[Exit, impetuously. 

Saffi. And may you break your neck in the pursuit! 

If scoundrels, like yourself, alone be men, 

We women had better marry our own kind, 

And save us from the sin of stocking Hell. 

Ah! I’d go there ten years before my time 
For one kiss from your “milk-and-water fool ”! 

She moves to the inner-room door, and 
Scene closes. 




62 


TIIE SILVER HEAD 


Scene III. 

A public square , with streets opening into it. It is nightfall , 
and the lamps are lighted. — Enter , from one of the 
streets on the left icing , and furthest in the depth of the 
stage , Manfred and Helen. As they come forward to 
the centre of the square , Oscar is seen to issue from the 
same street , wrapped closely in his cloak , with the collar 
drawn round his cheeks. He skulks into the angle of the 
steps of one of the houses on the left , and remains there 
covered by its shadow. 

Hel. Pray, do not, do not further with me go ? 

Yonder ’s the street I live in [pointing to her right. 

and not far. 

It is not right that you should see me home. 

My brother too will seek me. Should you meet! — 

[with alarm. 

O me! it is a dreadful thing, to feel 
So guilty! 

Manf Guilty, Helen ? you! And why ? 

Ilel. I know not, — but I feel it must be wrong, 

To be with you — I should feel so asham’d 
To have the eyes that love me see me now. 

O sir, pray let me go! I — sir- Good night 

God bless you for your kindness! and — good night. 

[Going. 

Manf. Helen, [she stops directly.}— dear Helen! [taking 

her hand. 



ACT III. SC. 3. 


63 


I — It is so hard 

To part thus and — forever. '[Helen hursts into tears. 

Do not cry! 

Hel. O sir, forgive me; it is very childish: 

It seems to me I have done nothing else 

But cry, by the hour, ever since- 

Manf. I durst, 

AVeak, wicked that I was, avow my love. 

There, now the word is said, that never again, 

Never can be recall’d, —though thus to say it, 

To you, you innocent child, is deadly wrong, — 

Helen ! — dear Helen ! — Helen of my soul! 

He already holds her hand 

in his left hand , and at these expressions of endearment, 
each of which is tenderer in tone than the one that precedes it, 
he passes his right arm round her waist, 
and presses her to him. 

Say, if you must now leave me — and you must, 

’T is terrible risk to your pure fame to stay — 

Say you will come again. 

Hel. O no, no! 

Manf. No? 

Do you not love me then? [mournfully. 

Hush ! do not sob; 

Think, we are standing in the public street. 

Helen, [with deep tenderness. 

I know you love me. [His head drops oxer 
hers, and their faces seem to touch. 
Helen! [murmuring .] 




64 


THE SILVER HEAD 



hissing her passionately .] love! 

For a moment , 

both seem overcome: then Manfred continues , with ardor 

but still in a low voice. 

Our breaths have mingled, and our souls are one: 

No more you will refuse me; now to part, 

After so brief a moment of delight, 

Would be to kill us both with vain regret. 

You will come back to me? 

Hel. [ mournfully , yet with much tenderness. 

Alas! for what? 

Since parting is such pain — and oh, I own 

That it is very bitter — why again ?- 

Manf. Would I renew it? Oh, because!- Ask not! 

I know but that I have you with me now : 

To part with you forever- Helen, speak! 

Could you endure it, and your heart not break ? 

Hel. Where then ? and when ? [in a low , agitated voice. 

Manf. Here, where we are, 

The moment you can come to me. 

Hel. O me! 

My father! [in a tone of deep anguish. 

, Never from his good, fond heart, 

Have I hid anything. Do not ask me ! pray, 

Do not! indeed, indeed, I dare not! I 
Should die of grief, to look on his white head, 

And feel in my heart I’d done him such a wrong 

O it is better in my lonely bed to weep 

For not having done it, than to weep it done! 







ACT III. SC. 3. 


65 


Manf. You are an angel! Yes, it is a sin 

To have concealments from the heart that trusts us, 
And trusts us for it thinks that we have none: 

And from a parent, folly it is as sin. 

Helen, I cannot lie- Yet, oh my God ! 

Have mercy! it is hut for once — but once! 

Hel. O no, no, do not tempt me! do not! Sir — 

I — I am going — God.— God bless you ever ! 

[endeavoring to leave him. 

Manf. Ah! 

You do not love me then ? 

Hel. O, I will come! 

I will! do not say that! { 'putting her hands into his 

with great eagerness. 
Manf. Heaven bless you now! [He 
hisses her again, folding her in his embrace. 
But, can you escape without its being known ? 

Hel. I shall go up to my room-[ bursting into tears. 

Manf. nush! do not cry. 

Hel. I cry to think of my father — nothing more. 

Manf. Fear not; he will not know it. — The house-door? 
Will not the noise betray you? 

Hel. At that hour 

It never is bolted; the room-doors are all clos’d. 

Yet, should they open, should my brother come 
Out in the passage, ere I pass the door! — 

It is a fearful risk, [shuddering. 

Manf. Do not think so. [pressing her sooth¬ 
ingly to him. 





(36 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Your soft light step, their dreaming not of this, 

The wintry night, and the dark hall- Is’t dark? 

Hel. Yes, there is no light burning there; we are poor. 
Man/. Hush, darling! It is Manfred that you speak to. 
Hel. And oh, it is for that, I should not come! 

Manf. Hush, hush again! [ kissing her. 

When will this be? what hour? 
Hel. The soonest I can take. Be near the door 
Within an hour, say, from now. But oh, 

You never will ask this of me again? 

Promise it, or I come not! 

Manf. By my soul — 

By honor, by my God, and by — our love! [ again 

kissing her. 

Hel. And you will not detain me long ? 

Manf. No, no; even now 
I hurry you off: go, Helen; or no, come! [ putting her 

arm under his. 

Hel. But at the head of the street, we part. 

Manf. And then, 

I follow you till I see you in your home. 

Hel. But not too near. Ah see! see what a thing 
It is to be so guilty! 

Manf Helen, peace! [softly. 

The guilt is mine; for you are innocent still, 

And yield to this deception for my sake — 

For my love, Helen, is it not? 

[embracing and kissing her again. 
Ah yes! 




ACT III. SC. 3. 


07 


Never shall you repent it. And now come. 

They move diagonally 
across the scene , arm in arm ; and Oscar, 
at the moment , comes out from his hiding-place , and follows 
them cautiously , yet near enough to hear 
the final words. 

In less than an hour from now, remember, sweet, 
Manfred will wait you. 

They part at the corner , 

or wing of the scene, in the remotest part of the stage , 
Oscar again receding into the shadow , though now on the 
right hand , until Helen disappears , and, 
after a moment , Manfred follows , when 
Oscar comes forward again. 

Osc. Like a dog, in the street. 

I thought the pretty scene would never have done. 
Pest on the fellow! And I must wait still, 

To know where this rare meeting is to be, 

4 

And when; for nothing could I hear but this: 
“Manfred will wait you.” How egregious fine! 
Could not the gentleman have said, I 'll wait? 

So much for having a fine name! Now, had 
Our father — but perhaps it was our dam 
Was so romantic in her tastes — but chosen 
To call you Tom , I think you had been more plain. 
Thomas will wait you , would have sounded rare! 
Pomposity!— But who the devil is this? 



68 


THE SILVER HEAD 


He has been moving bach again to 
the left , and now , icith his bach to the 
audience , is about encountering Richard 
Mattison, who is seen coming from the street at 
which Manfred and Helen, and finally himself had 
appeared. At this moment , Vincent, muffed in a Span¬ 
ish cloah , but with his face uncovered , issues from the same 
side of the scene , — but close to the proscenium , as Oscar 
and Richard are farthest in the bachground. Vin¬ 
cent is about to pass in front, as Oscar speahs 
in a loud tone. 

Oh, Mattison, it’s you, is’t! 

Vincent starts at the name , loohs at them a moment , then 
eagerly muffing his face with the cloah , moves over the 
stage , toward the quarter where Manfred and 
Helen have disappeared , passing directly in 
front , the whole breadth of the scene , then 
turning straight up on the right , but 
very slowly , and eying from time 
to time the party , over the 
mu fie of his cloah. 

You ’re too soon. 

Rich. I know it, but I come now from a place 
Where I had look’d to find my sister. But, 

Your brother, sir, it seems, was earlier there. 

Osc. True. 

Rich. How ? You knew it ? 

Osc. Only now, i’ faith. 

He saw her home, and, with her on his arm, 



ACT III. SC. 3. 


69 


Pass’d — half an hour ago. 

Rich. Good night. 

Osc. Eh, stop! 

Did you not hear me ? half an hour ago. 

Your sister is by this time snug at home. 

Rich. I know not that. [ still endeavoring to go. 

Osc. But I do ; for my brother 
I left just now at the house. So, you will see, 

You will not find him as you think. Now go, 

And wait me at the place you know of. Go; 

I ’ll follow you in a minute. 

Rich. Why not now ? 

Osc. O, I ’ve a fancy of my own detains me. [signifi¬ 
cantly. 

It shall not be for long. A word, a kiss, 

The little flutterer’s soon put off, you know, 

And a new night will serve her turn as well. 

There go. 

Rich. Ah, ah! you are a sad rake! 

Osc. II 

’Faith, if I he, my teeth are open, though. 

Rich. Yes, and for that I like you : not as- 

Osc. Go! 
[pushing hint off. 

I am busy now, I tell you. And besides, 

Tease me, and, sir, I will not come at all; 

And that would be your loss,—for, hark! I have 
news. 

Rich. What! of the villain’s- 





70 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Osc. Of my brother, sir. 

You ’ll please remember that, and be less rude. 

I league with you in pity of your sister, 

In charity for yourself, and for your sire: 

No further. 

Rich . Pardon me. 

Osc. There go. 

Oscar turns his lack, as if his purpose were to pursue the way 
he was taking ichen they met , and Richard turns off at 
the right wing , close to the proscenium. Vincent 
■immediately follows , and disappears in the same 
direction , before Oscar again returns. 

Another 

Of the predestinate asses! A mere boy, 

That thinks my roughness openness : to him ! 

Open to him ! [ with an expression of the most intense 
contempt.'] But, ’faith, he was well off, 

For here comes Manfred now. 

[looking toward the quarter where Manf. had 
made his exit with Helen. 

Had they but met, 

Simplicity again had o’ermatch’d cunning: 

These candid people soon make darkness light. 

Re-enter Manfred. 

What, Manfred! you ? Where have you left the girl? 
You just miss’d falling foul of her own brother. 

How pale you are! What ails you ? Why not speak ! 
Manf. [grasping his hand, and speaking solemnly. 



ACT III. SC. 3. 


71 


I have seen a sight- 

Osc. The devil you have! A ghost? 
Manf. Don’t mock me, Oscar; ’t is no time for jest. 

Had you but seen- I’ll tell you: listen. When 

I had left that innocent girl-But, by the by, 

You must admit you did traduce her vilely. 

Saffise was not- 

Osc. In that point, I admit 

I was deceiv’d. Go on now. When you left- 

Manf. Poor Helen at her home, the parlor-light 

Shone through a half-clos’d shutter. The desire 
To see her face once more, to see her too 
When unaware a lover’s eye was watching, 

And in her family-circle unrestrain’d, 

Seem’d nowise wrong, nor its indulgence mean. 

I stoop’d to the crevice. By a table sat 
A reverend man, of mien more apostolic 
Than ever painter drew. A length of hair, 

Glistening and white as silver, downward floated 
In waves to his very shoulders; and his brow, 
•Whether the book he read from so inspir’d, 

Or’t was the habitual feeling of his soul, 

His brow, and the sweet outline of his lips, 

Spoke of true nobleness, candor without guile. 

0 brother, when I saw this sight, my heart 
Reproach’d me for its weakness, and Remorse 
Seem’d to have blanch’d those locks for only me. 
What then, when suddenly the parlor-door 
Flew open, and poor Helen, rushing in, 








THE SILVER HEAD 


Threw her arms round the old man’s neck, and wept! 
Osc. You saw it? 

Manf. Yes; he rais’d her head, the light 
Glanc’d on her tears. — Then words were interchang’d, 
And Helen heavily sigh’d. — 

Osc . You heard her? 

Manf. No; 

Her bosom visibly heav’d. The old man then 
Laid his hand gently on her head, and parting 
The beautiful hair upon her forehead, kiss’d it. 

She took a lamp — her hand so shook, poor girl, 

She could not light it, and the old man help’d her — 
And to the door went Helen, tearful. — 

Osc. All! [ affecting 
a sigh of relief from fatigue. 

The air is chilly. 

Manf. Is it? [abstractedly.\ —But behold! 
With sudden impulse coming back, she fell 
At the old man’s feet upon her knees, her face 
Hid in her hands, which folded on his lap. 

She seem’d to ask his blessing; for, uplifting 
His tremulous hands and glistening eyes to Heaven, 
He said aloud — I heard him through the pane — 

7U Bless her, thou God of justice! bless my child! 

And on her innocent spirit let not sin 
Drop its decaying mildew! from her brow 
Let Care remove its shadow, and her eyes 
Sparkle once more with happy light; for Thou, 

Thou knowest, my God, how very pure she is-, 



ACT III. SC. 3. 


73 


How true her life has been to Thee and me! 

On her sad pillow, let Thy angels’ wings 
This night shed slumber, fanning to repose 
Her troubled spirit, and her shatter’d nerves — 

Too weak for their sore trial — making whole ! 

So shall her heart have strength to bear its load. 

Help, God our Father! help my child! Amen!” 

Osc. Excellent poetry ! And the result? 

Mart/. Are you so cruel ? — Hear then the result. 

That Silver Head has sav’d both her and me. 

This night I am to meet her. Should she come! — 
Those white locks shall be round her like a veil, 

Nor shall my passion lift it. 

Osc. What means that ? 

Where were you then to meet her? at what time? 
Mart/ Within an hour, here, in the public street. 

Osc. Choice place! What purpose would such folly serve ? 
Man/. To make me madder ! for a moment fill, 

To leave it emptier than before, that void, 

Which in my heart keeps aching ever, ever, 

With a sick pang, when Helen is away; 

A pang, I fancy, he who knows not, Oscar, 

Never has- 

Osc. Been a man of blood and brains. 

’T is the old story: sensual sensation, 

A gnawing natural as the lust to dine. 

You are not made to starve, and will fare well. 

But next time, Manfred, when you spread your table, 
Let it not be, as now, al/resco. 




74 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Man/.. Peace! 

You speak of Helen; and you speak to me. 

I am not Oscar; nor is she Saffise. 

Osc. No, but you both are human. Else, why meet? 
Manf Because I ask’d her. Haply, had we met, 

Unheard that voice, those silver hairs unseen, 
Conscience and Reason might have wept it. Now, 
We part at once, or — never shall part more. 

Osc. When was your blood made water ? I’ve forgotten. 
Manf. Ah! Hear me then. I swear it — by high Heaven! 
You know my faith, how sacred; had I sworn 
To kill her, I had stabb’d her with this hand. — 

Now sleep in peace, thou venerable man! 

No dust shall soil those silver locks for me, 

Nor Helen’s young heart break with grief of sin! 

[Exit, at the left of the scene , nearest the 
proscenium—the quarter whence Vincent 
had entered. Oscar regards him icith 
supreme contempt till he disappears. 
Osc. “Now sleep in peace, thou venerable man!” — 
What a fine thing to have poetic brains! — 

“Helen’s young heart!”—You are not Oscar? [with 

a tone of deep malignity .] No; 
Nor am I Manfred. Go! For all that’s said, 

I’ll ruin you both, despite the Silver Head. 

[. Exit , at the right , where Richard had disap¬ 
peared, and the 


Drop falls. 



ACT IV. SC. 1. 


75 


Act the Fourth 

Scene I. Sybil's boudoir , as in Act Sc. IT. 

Sybil. 

She appears to hare just entered. 

Syb. [looking pensively at the broken glowers which still 
strew the Jloor. 

Emblems indeed! How soon these scented leaves, 

[i lifting one of them. 

8 Whose delicate freshness shrivels at my touch, 

Will lie so wither’d, never heat nor cold, 

Nor moisture, sensibly will affect them more! 

Yet for a while their perfume still survives — 

Their unseen virtue. Even so, poor Helen, 

Thy sensitive heart, that quivers at the touch 
Of its new passion, thrown thus under foot, 

Will take like changes. Yet, a just God grant 
Its precious fragrance may not quit the flower, 

While yet a leaf remains! — Strange, partial world ! 
Plac’d but as I, had Helen been — how blest! 

And yet 9 — perhaps her lowly state, contrasted 
With her so delicate air, and artless grace, 

And her exceeding guilelessness of soul, 

Wakes irresistiblo what else might fail. 


THE SILVER HEAD. 


76 


’T is this scope of a power, for him and her 
So dangerous, renders Helen’s fate so hard. 

And I, unfortunate, who drew her hither, 

Meaning but good, yet doing fatal harm! 

[Sinks into abstraction , gazing on the 
sca ttered flower-leaves. 


Enter Manfred. 

Man/. [.Smiling sadly. 

What, cousin, musing on your misus’d gift! 

Syb. Musing to moralize. 

Manf On Helen’s fate, 

Even as you said before. — I might so too. [taking 

up some of the leaves. 
Broken unwittingly, broken by a hand 
That lov’d in other times to use you well, 

Flowers, in whose fragile forms the spirit of beauty 
Made rapturous worship for the impassion’d heart, 

Nor God dissented, —broken by my hand, 

Who can unite your scatter’d leaves again ? 

[He drops the petals, and clasps his hands earnestly. 

O! ’t was an oath well sworn! 

Syb. What was? and when? . 

Manf. Ah, Sybil! I have seen — have that to tell!- 

Hush? ’t is our uncle; we must be alone. 

Enter Sir Henry. 

Sir R. At last, my dear boy! And where have you been ? 
It was not well, nor was it done like Manfred, 




ACT IV. SC. 1. 


17 


To leave without excuse your friend alone, — 

Oscar too gone. But what is rather odd, 

Vincent, the moment he is given to know 
Yourself and Oscar have gone out together, 

Mutters his own excuses, and is off! 

Manf. Indeed! He fears to trust me; [to himself 

and has cause. 

Sir H. Are you so slippery ? And, in truth, I see, 

Now I look at you, all is not quite well. 

But I am nowise curious,—nor need be: 

"With such a Mentor, though his beard ’s still brown, 
My good Telemachus cannot travel wrong, 

Even where such Circes intercept his way. [twining 
his fingers affectionately in one of Sybil's curls. 
Syb. Strange compliment! Good uncle, you are dull 
As Manfred’s Mentor at a flattering speech. 

Oh that I had the enchantress’ cup awhile, 

To put a bristling hide on both your backs! 

Sir R. ’T would be no new requital for the pains 
Men take to please, to steal away their minds; 

Would it be, Manfred? 

Manf. [vacantly—starting from aft of deep 
abstraction. 

Sir? 

Sir IT. [shaking his head knowingly at Sybil. 

’T is done alreadv. 

%! 

Come, you will make a poor Ulysses’ heir; 

You play Elvino better; Circe here 
Shall change to sweet Amina. I am come, 



78 


THE SILVER HEAD 


In fact to lead you to the music-room: 

Uncle must have his favorite Scene again, — 

Tutto e sciolto ! 

Manf. Pray excuse me, sir. 

Sybil will take some other part, alone. 

To sing well sadly, one’s heart must be gay. 

To bid, in song, adieu for evermore 
To consolation and the light of love, 

Would not be easy, cousin, for me now. 

[looking appealingly to Sybil. 
Syb. Not if the song and truth must needs be one. 

But then, Rubini never had grown fat. 

Manfred presses the ends of her fingers ; and they 
go out thus , hand in hand. 

Sir. H. [ loitering. 

Ah! this looks well! I shall be blest at last, 

And Sybil’s heirs will bear her uncle’s name. 

And such an offspring! ’T will outshine the stars. 

\Exit, after them. 



ACT IV. SC. 2. 


79 


A 


Scene II. 

A room in a tavern. 

A lighted lamp suspended from the ceiling. 

Richakd Mattison is seen standing with his hat on and 
back to the fireplace, his hands in the pockets of his over¬ 
coat : Vincent walking up and down with his arms 
folded, his cloak and hat still on. — Vincent is at the 
furthest end of the room, and with his back to the audi¬ 
ence, as 

Enter , Oscae. 

Osc. [throwing back his cloak and taking off his hat, both 
of which he tosses on a table which is standing 
in the middle of the room. 

You see I have not kept you waiting long. 

And now, to work. [As he faces about, sees Vincent. 

What’s this? Whom have you here? 
Vincent turns and looks at him steadily, 
his arms still folded. 

Vincent! 

Rich. The gentleman profess’d to have 
Some business with you too, and would come in. 

As Richaed speaks , Vincent throws off 
his cloak deliberately, and lays it and his hat 
on the table where Oscae’s are: Richaed still standing, 
ivith his hat and overcoat on, without 
shifting his position. 


80 


TIIE SILVER HEAD 


Osc. Fool! ’t is my brother’s friend and prompter! 

Rich. A scoundrel’s friend, and prompter for the Devil! 
Vin. Indeed? [making directly toward him with a deter¬ 
mined air: Rich., with equal resolution , but 
icitli more violence , rushing to meet him. 
Oscar steps between them. 

Osc. Stop! both of you: this quarrel’s mine. 
First, sir, for you, [turning severely to Rich. 

let me not have again 

To bid you, when my brother is your theme, 

To characterize him by some milder name. 

And now, sir, [to Vine, with a malignant smile. 

what occasion brings you here ? 

To gloss for me the “ truth without a flaw 
Vin. To find its illustration, rather sav; 

To penetrate the schemes, and make them null, 

Of a false friend and brother, and reopen 

The eyes of this rash boy [indicating Rich, by a slight 

motion of the head. 
your arts have clos’d. 

Osc. [putting coolly back , with the palm of his hand , Rich¬ 
ard , who, at these words , is rushing upon Vincent. 
And did your wisdom calculate the risk 
Of this ambition to enact the spy, 

Or think what heavy premium must be paid 
For insight into schemes, which — say they be — 

Can not concern you anywise at all ? 

Vin. For spying , sir, my open dealing now 

Makes that sneer harmless: had I been dispos’d, 



ACT IV. SC. 2. 


81 


I might have gain’d my object ere yon came, 

And spar’d this person [looking at Rich. 

cause for deep regret. 

For risk, who knows me well as you, should know, 
What Theodore Vincent’s plain sense may advise 
For Manfred’s good, that does he as the friend 
Of Manfred, and at once, nor counts the risk. 

Osc. That we shall see. [with a meaning smile. 

Here, Mattison, go up 
To the billiardroom above us, draw aside 
The keeper of’t, who happily keeps too 
A shooting-gallery; give him this gold piece, 

Mention my name, and bid him give you straight 
His two best weapons, with a flask and balls, 

And keep his tongue about it. 

Rich. [with astonishment and some degree of alarm. 

Ho you mean it ? 

Osc. Look at us both; [glancing round to Vincent. 

then ask me, if you can, 

If I be serious. Go. [Exit Richard. 

Vin. And what by this 
Does Mr. Oscar Ferguson propose? 

Osc. To do that now, which I had meant to-morrow 
To do in a colder field. Our fingers here 
Will be more flexible, although the light [loohing care¬ 
lessly up at the lamp. 
Is not, i’ faith, so brilliant as the sun. 

Vin. [sternly.'] Sir, do you think, because yourself are mad. 
That I am too ? 



82 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Osc. Oh no, I am aware 
That Mr. Vincent’s wisdom, or “plain sense,” 

Knows well the difference betwixt giving insult 
And making reparation for it. 

Yin. Ah! — 

But no ! you shall not force me into crime, 

Nor to such folly as would make me lose 

Both the world’s reverence and your brother’s love. 

I have enough of courage to dare leave. [ lay ing his 

hand on his cloak to lift it from the table. 
Osc. [putting his own hand on the same. 

You came, sir, uninvited, and you go 
Without obtaining what in hopes to gain 
You scrupled not to lay good manners by. 

But I am hospitable, and entreat, insist, 

That you will deign to make yourself at home. 

Wait Mattison’s return, and put him all 
Such questions as you like; when that is done, 

In honor of your struggle with good-breeding, 

And freedom won from tyranny of shame. 

We will together fire a feu-de-joie. 

Suddenly changing his manner to a perfect seriousness , with¬ 
out rudeness or impertinence. 

Sir, Mr. Vincent, men report you wise, 

And honorable, and brave, and that all this 
You are, and more, does Manfred love to think. 

I will now put those qualities to proof. 

This day I have borne gross insults from you twice; 
First, in my brother’s presence. — 



ACT IV. SC. 2. 


83 


Vin. [coldly and calmly.'] ’T was provok’d. 
Osc. Be it so; still an insult. And now liere, 

Before a fellow neither of us knows. 

You are no bigot, sir, I will presume, 

And, giving, in the fashion of the world, 

Mortal offence, will not deny you are bound 
To give such satisfaction for the affront 
As’t is the fashion of the world to claim? 

Vin. I do not. 

Osc. [eagerly.] Then, to-morrow you had met, 

As a brave man and honorable should, 

The challenge I was fully bent to send ? 

Vin. As a brave man and honorable should, 

Who has no fear to do the thing that’s right, 

Refus’d to fight the brother of my friend. 

Osc. My brother well might pity, but not love 
A coward. 

Vin. Sir! — Enough. I ’ll meet you. 

Osc. [joyfully.] Good. 
To a brave man all times are equal: now 
Will serve as well as to-morrow. 

Enter Richard, 

hearing the weapons , inclosed in the usual case. 

To Richard.] Set them down. 

Vin. [i indignantly .] No sir, now will not serve. I am no 
brawler 

To fight in a tavern-room, no seconds by. 



84 


THE -SILVER HEAD 


If you have no regard to name, I have. 

To-morrow I will meet you, where you will. 

Osc. And that is, nowhere. Go. Be off! I thought 
To fight with a man : hut you are none. There, go. 

[flinging his cloak to Vincent , insultingly , so 
that it strikes him heavily on the shoulder 
and in the face. 

Yin. [sternly to Richard. 

Sir, bolt the door. [To Oscar.] I am ready. 

[and he lays dozen the cloak. — Again 
to Richard , hut mildly. 

I know not 

Aught of you, Mr. Mattison, nor why 

You are present here, save what I can conjecture, 

And too well, from your name. Quite unprovok’d, 
You have insulted me most grossly ; this 

I do forgive you- 

Rich. Sir — [impatiently. 

Vin. Be not impatient; 

What I have yet to say is briefly this: 

If I should fall in this disgraceful conflict, 

I charge you, as a man, to tell the world, 

That Theodore Vincent, with his latest breath. 
Protested against such a fight, and yielded 
Only at last to shun a worse disgrace. 

Osc. [opening the case , and talcing out the weapons as he 
speaks. 

And should I fall, see that you hawk about 
My dying-confession and last speech as this: 




ACT IY. SC. 2. 


85 


That Oscar Ferguson would shoot his foe 
Wherever he found him, but, being shot himself, 

Felt quite as well content his blood should soak 

\ 

A carpet as bedabble a green field, [takes out the flask 

and halls. 

Rich, [apparently horror-struck. 

Gentlemen! this is horrid! must not be ! — 

Sir [to Vin.] — Mr. Ferguson [to Osc .]— 

Osc. [taking out the caps from the bottom of the 
powder-flask , and examining them. 
Will you hold your tongue ? 
Else, leave the room, and let us fight alone. 

Rich, [angrily.] I’d have you, Mr. Ferguson, remember, 
In ordering me, that I am not your slave. 

I shall remain, for Mr. Vincent’s sake, 

As much as for your own. But pray, be civil. 

Osc. [carelessly , and, as before , without turning his head. 

Pardon.- [To Vin.] You load for me, and I for you. 

Which weapon will you take ? They seem alike. 

[looking at them , as he holds them , with the 
air of a connoisseur , then handing them 
both to Vin. 

Vin. This, which is next me, then, [taking it. 

Osc. The one that’s left 

I charge for you. [handing Vin. the powder-flask. 

But now, that I reflect, 

Had w'e not better go above ? the noise 
Will cause no wonder in the gallery. 

Vin. No; 




86 


THE SILVER HEAD 


If’t must be thus, it may as well be here: [ charging 

Ms weapon. 

To light the shooting-room would cost us time. 

Osc. And others than yourself have none to spare. 

[looking first at Ms watch, and then 
significantly to Rich. 
Make haste. The ball and mallet, sir. [handing them , 

and taking in turn the flask. 
But, stay: 

Above, the shots may be repeated; here, 

At the first sound, the house may be upon us. 

We had better, sir, adjourn. 

Vin. Perhaps adjourn 

For good. Proceed; or you will make me think 
You want your brother’s courage, as his honor. 

Osc. Ah! I deserv’d that; ’t is a fair return, [ramming 

home his charge. 

The mallet? have you done? [ Vin. hands it. 

One shot may do. 

[forcing in the ball. 
But who the devil is there? [the door violently shook 

from within. 
The cap, sir, quick. 

[handing it to Vin., and fitting one on his own weapon. 
Don’t mind it, Mattison. [the door shaken still more 

violently. 

Are you ready, sir ? [ To Vin. 
— They exchange weapons. 


Choose your own corner. 



ACT IV. SC. 2. 


87 


Vincent rapidly places himself at the left angle , 
while Oscar takes as quickly the corner diagonally opposite , 
and which is close to the door that is still shaking 
from the efforts made within. 

We have just the space. 

One, two, three, fire. Quick; call, sir. [to Rich .— 
The door is hurst open , and, rushing in , 

Enter Meddleham. 

Medd. No you don’t! 
Coming against Oscar, the impetus given 
him hy the resistance of the door throws down the former , 

whose pistol explodes. 

You ’re in a hurry, my fine fellow. 

Osc. [ rising , and striking passionately with 
the weapon at Medd., who avoids the 

blow, which sends Oscar stagger- 

» 

ing past him. 

Fool! 

Take that for interfering. Mattison, 

Why do you rush between us? knock him down, 

Or tumble him from the room. Curse on you, sir! 
Will you go out? [endeavoring to turn Medd. out. 

Medd. [struggling to disengage himself. 
What name was that you said ? 
Mattison? [in a tone of surprise. 

Vin. [who has laid down his weapon and put on 

his cloak. 

Mr. Ferguson, good night. 



88 


THE SILVER HEAD 


The play is ended here: you may renew it, 

Even when you please; but on a fitter stage. 

[Exit, hat in hand,—while Richard hastily re¬ 
stores the implements to the case, and hurries 
out with it. Oscar lets go of Meddleham, 
who seems to take the affair in perfect 
good part, while Oscar gazes on him 
with both rage and surprise. 

Medd. Ferguson too! Why what the deuse is this? 

Which one is Ferguson? Are you, sir, he? 

Osc. (An odd fish this!) I am, sir, at your pleasure. 

[bowing sarcastically. 
Is it to kick you from the room at once, 

Or first to beat you handsomely, to teach you 
A meddler gets less thanks than broken bones? 

Medd. You have not hit it quite, sir, there: my name 
Is Meddleham, not Meddler; ’t is so spell’d, 

That is to say; but people choose to call it, 

And so my grandsire did among the rest, 

Middleum. As for broken bones, young man, 
Perhaps Ralph Meddleham gives as well as takes. 

Osc. Will you then give me, sir, the satisfaction 
To see Ralph take himself out of this room. 

I pay for it, and want no meddlers here, 

Whether their hams be Middle hams or Meddles. 
Medd. That ’s right enough, although ’t is wrongly said. 
But first, my young impertinent, will’t please you 
Who are so ready with your fist and pistol, 

Or boast to be, to tell me if you be 



ACT IV. SC. 2. 


89 


One of the nephews of Sir Henry here, 

Old Colonel Ferguson? 

Osc. [surprised .] What ’s that to you ? 

Medd. More than you think, and much to you besides. 

You are not Manfred, surely? 

Osc. What comes next ? 

[to himself. 

Truly, I am. [after looJcing for a moment narrowly at 
Medd.\ What then ? 

Medd. Why then this world 
Is still more given to lying than I had thought it. 

[Exit. 

Osc. [soZws.] Then has your charity outweigh’d your 
brains. — 

Meddleham — Middleum —Ralph — Who can this be ? 

[thoughtfully. 

Yet, now I think, the name resembles one 
That when a child I heard my mother mention. 
Whatever though the intruder has to do 
With me or Manfred, this I thank him for, 

For bursting-in that door ere quite too late; 

For, whether I had shot Vincent, or he me, 

My schemes to-night had equally fallen through. 

I must command this temper. But what keeps 
That would-be man, Miss Nelly’s saucy brother, 

So long away? [looJcing at his watch.\ A genteel 
second that! 

It had read well in the prints, a petty clerk, 

Of some small warehouseman, sole witness ’t ween 



THE SILVER HEAD 


The fashionable Vincent and myself! — 

How well though Vincent bore himself! ’T is strange: 
My hate for him was mortal: since I find 
The man has blood like other men, and nerve — 
Devilish good nerve too! —should we never fight, 

The disappointment will not make me thin. 

But where’s this stripling! Heaven send, as yet, 

He have not shot himself! My work once done, 

He may as soon as he pleases, and so spare 
Some better man the task of ridding him 
Of brains he never uses. I must see. 

[ Goes, to the door , and opens it , to listen. The 
Scene closes on him in the act. 



ACT IV. SC. 3. 


91 


Scene III. 

Saffise's parlor — as in Act IT., Sc. I. 

Saffise, alone , 

reclining on the conch. A plain lamp burning 

on the table. 

Saffi. [springing up. 

I’ll do it! I will, I will, I will. The wretch 

[comes forward. 

Shall not make one his tool, to fling away 

Like a broken chisel, when I’ve serv’d his turn; 

Cursing me too while using me, because 

He has no skill for his work. The bungling knave! 

I’ll cut his fingers for him, to the bone! — 

How let me see : if Helen has been weak 
Like other girls, and Oscar’s brother’s blood 
Is half as hot as it should be from his looks, 

All’s over, and the Colonel’s favor is lost. 

The more fool he, to cut his darling off 
For kissing a pale-fac’d girl without his leave! 

A thing he has often done himself, I’d swear, 

And never ask’d his nephews how they lik’d it. 

But Oscar shall gain nothing by the chance, 

Except what he deserves, — a traitor’s pay. 

To expose him, it is true, will shame myself; 

And so he thinks I will not. He shall find, 

Saffise will be reveng’d at any cost! 


92 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Saffise, the “ slut I have not forgot the words. 

My God, how should I! — “ that this gentle girl 
Should make a playmate of a slut like me!' 1 ' 1 
Ah ! they shall cost him dear. I’ll tell it all, 

I will — on the instant — if the “ gentle girl ” 

[with bitterness. 

Herself is standing by, and the poor slut 
Is turn’d into the street with shame — I will! 

[swaying herself on her toes , her figure rising 
and falling with every clause , as she ges¬ 
ticulates passionately. - Walking up, 

toward the door of the inner room. 
They ’ll not refuse to let me see Sir Henry. 

Should he be there — the brother of my Turk! — 

[takes up the lamp and goes before a mirror. 
How dull my eyes look! I could tear them out. 

It is this lock of hair that has got misplac’d. 

[endeavoring to arrange it. 
I ’ll let it all out; it looks vilely, all. 

Lets down the whole of her hair ; then gathers it together in 
her hands , and, begins to dress it in the manner 

of her sex. 

But everything seems wrong! [ letting it all down 

again. 

This paltry shawl! 

[taking it pettishly off 
One of my master's gifts — mean like himself. 

[thrusts it from her with her foot. 
I ’ll make my toilet over — hair and all. 


T 




ACT IV. SC. 4. 


93 


Oh, that I were as Helen! [ coming down , in her dis¬ 
array. 

Could I win 

But one of those sweet words he spoke to her, 

But one look from his beautiful, thoughtful eyes, 

One look that did not mock me like his brother’s, 

I’d make of my hair a cloth to dust his shoes. 

I would! I’d be the vilest thing in the world, 

So I might for an hour sit at his feet, 

And hear him say, Saffise , you are no slut! 

She sobs , and drawing her hair before her eyes , uses it to 
staunch her tears ; and the scene closes on her 
thus standing. 


Scene IV. 

The parlor at Mattison's , as in Act //., Sc. II. 
Mattison and Meddleham, 
seated by a table lighted by a plain but shaded, lamp. 

Matt. Yes, that is very true; my father’s sister 
Marry’d a Meddleham. 

Medd. Who was my father. 

Matt. We are then cousins? [extending his hand cordially 

to Medd, 




94 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Medd. [taking it frankly and heartily.'] Happily, I trust, 
For both of us, when you know all. Enough 
For the time present, that, except your own, 

And one more family, of which anon, 

I am lonely in the world now, and am come 
A weary, weary way from the Far West, 

To lay my old bones with you, if you will. 

But tell me now, how many, cousin Mark, 

You have in family besides your son. 

Matt. One only, but an angel upon earth, 

If ever were. 

Medd. A daughter then ? And pretty ? 

Matt. Beautiful! as a star in a winter’s night. 

But not more beautiful than good. O sir, 

Her graces and her virtues are the rose 
Blossoming in a wilderness to me, 

Making all garden and perpetual bloom. 

Medd. Where is she ? Sha’ n’t I see her ? 

Matt. Not to-night: 

She came home from her daily work, poor child, 
Earlier than usual and exceeding sad, 

And is but now retired. 

Medd. Her daily work! 

You are poor then? [with a kind of exultation, and 

looking about him, on the furniture 
of the room, &c. 

Matt, [gravely.] We complain not. Are you glad ? 
Medd. Glad it is in my power to do you good; 

Glad- You shall see to-morrow! And her name? 




ACT IV. SC. d. 


95 


Matt. Helen. 

Medd. My mother’s! 

Matt. Thence deriv’d. 

Medd. That’s well. 

How I shall love her! [rubbing his hands. 

Mould I were as sure 
Of her fine brother; but the friends I see 
The young man leag’d with do not promise much. 
Matt. How f Mr. Meddleham! 

Medd. Bah! call me Ralph. 

D’ you think, man, that because I have liv’d away, 
And never look’d upon your face before, 

You are unknown to me? I have cherish’d long 
A world of love, that now has grown so big 
My bosom would not hold it: so I came 
To vent it all upon its proper objects, 

On you and yours, and other kin besides. 

Why, cousin Mark, I knew your Helen’s name 
And Richard’s long ago, and if I ask’d 
Those questions of the girl, ’t was but to sound 
Your own affection, and to ascertain 
If private rumor had reported well. 

Besides, they tell me that I have a trick 
Of questioning people where I should be dumb. 

But if I had not, how should I be wise ? 

Matt. But my boy, Richard ? He is rash, I know, 

And very wilful, yet his morals still 
Have seem’d correct: what were those friends you 
mean ? 



93 


TIIE SILVER HEAD 


Medd. One Manfred Ferguson — 

Matt . What! Heaven forbid ! 

[in much alarm. 

Medd. And so say I, although ’t is rather late : 

For of all impudent fellows I ever met 
This Master Manfred v r ill bear off the palm. 

Matt. You dream! you are misled! What Manfred ’s 
this ? 

Medd. The Colonel’s nephew, old Sir Henry’s here 
The name is not so common, I should think. 

Matt. Manfred! Why he’s a hero of romance, 

A pattern of the rarest qualities 

Of head and heart a man can well possess. 

I said not “ Heaven forbid!” because of that: 

I would to Heaven he were my Richard’s friend! 
Medd. Then you must want to bring your Richard up 
A duelist, or a champion of the ring : 

For, hark you, Mark, your “hero of romance ” 
Offer’d to kick me, try’d to beat my brains out, 

And came near putting a bullet through my leg. 
Matt. This is some strange mistake! Explain it: where 
Was this? 

Medd. There ’s no mistake at all, save what 
Those wise ones fell into, who taught me too 
This Manfred was a hero of romance — 

Such a romance as Tom Crib might have writ! 

Hear then. 

The time being heavy on my hands, 

I stroll’d this evening to the billiardroom 



ACT IV. SC. 4. 


97 


Of the hotel where I had just put up. ' 

Presently comes a young man in great haste, 

His features ruffled strangely, takes aside 
The keeper of the room, slips in his hand 
Some money, whispers, and they both go out. 
Following in a little while, I see them 
Descending, both, the stairs that led above, 

The young man having in his hands a case 
Of questionable shape. They part; and then, 

Coming more near, I hear the man observe, 

“ Remember! ’t is no fault of mine, sir!” — “ Hone,” 
Answers the youth: “Say nothing, that is all!” 

This youth was Richard Mattison, your son. 

Matt. God help me! What is coming ? 

Medd. So said I, — 

And watching stealthily the young man’s course, 

And following at a proper distance, came 

To a room of the floor below he just had enter’d. 

Almost immediately the door is lock’d. 

“ Aha!” thought I, “ I see what you are after; 

But I shall spoil your sport, my gentle doves!” 

I listen’d long enough, and saw enough 
Through the keyhole too, to make belief conviction, 
And finally burst the door in, just in time 
To save two fools from making one fool less. 

Matt. Don’t stop ! [ eagerly , with an expression of anguish. 
Medd. I did not; for my body, coming 
Prone on the nearest fighter, knock’d him down. 

The hair of his pistol being ready set, 



93 


THE SILVEll HEAD 


Off goes tlie weapon, right betwixt my legs. 

But, as if risk of maiming were n’t enough, 

My gentleman, rising, with his popgun’s stock 
Tries to beat out my brains! 

Matt, [grasping his arm.] ’T was not my son ? 

Medd. No, your son rush’d between us. 

Matt. Ah! thank God ! 
And yet, he was the other combatant! 

Medd. No, he was not: how can you be so silly? 

He went for the weapons, that was all, and stood. 

As second in common, by, to see fair play. 

The other was a man more old than either, 

And seem’d the decentest fellow of all three. 

Matt. But sure you said, that one of them was Manfred ? 
Medd. I did; I had it from his very lips — 

After he had offer’d, courteously, to beat me, 

Or kick me out of the room, if I preferr’d. 

Matt. Strange! 

Medd. True not less. But, to conclude the tale, 
Hearing this Manfred call your son by name, 

Politely bidding him knock the meddler down, 

Or tumble me from the room, — romantic, that! 

I follow’d the latter, met him coming back — 

Learn’d your address, and straightway hasten’d 
hither, — 

Chiefly because he told me I must not. 

And now, what say you, cousin, to my tale? 

Is this good company that Richard keeps? 

Matt. T say still, there is some mistake. But wait: 




ACT IV. SC. 4. 


09 


My son must soon be home. 

Medd. When we shall see. 
Meantime, this is dry talking, cousin Mark: 

What have you got? 

Matt. I soon can give you tea. 

Medd. Tea! ’t is not hearty. But perhaps you are 
One of good Matthew’s people ? 

Matt. No, I am temperate 
Not by forswearing every mirthful drink, 

Which were ascetic, but by using them 
Only as I would have my boy use pleasure, 

A little at a time, and “far between.” 

Medd. [pressing his hand admiringly and affectionately. 
Philosopher and poet, as‘ they told me. 

Let us then have some punch this winter evening, 
And, if you have no spirit and lemons here, 

We ’ll send your woman for them. What’s her name ? 

[rising briskly , and ringing the parlor-bell. 

Kittv ? 

Matt. No, Molly, [smiling. 

Medd. Molly, is it? [knocks on the floor with 
his stick ; then , running like a boy to the door 
and opening it , cries out into the passage. 
Molly! 

Put on the kettle, Molly, —not for tea! 

Mattison watches him with a benevolent smile — 


and the Drop falls. 



100 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Act the Fifth. 


Scene I. The room of the tavern, as in Act IV., Sc. II 
The lamp burning, as before. 

Oscar and Richard. 

Rich. Wherefore not now? [talcing up his hat with an air 

of restrained impatience. 
Osc. Because it is too soon. 

Have I not said, the high contracting parties 
Agreed — and seal’d the treaty with their lips — 

[Rich, restraining an impulse of anger. 
An hour and more should intervene, between 
That last dear parting and the auspicious time 
When the fair Helen, issuing from her chamber, 
Should make a Meneliius of her ’pa, 

And meet the Paris, Manfred, in the streets? 

Rich, [furiously. 

Stop, sir! What does this language mean? to me? 
Osc. [shrugging his shoulders. 

' ’Faith, I might answer you, my lad, in brief, 

That you may let it mean even what you please. 

But we ’ll not have those pistols brought again; 

They go off much too promptly: so, I say, 


ACT V. SC. 1. 


101 


It is to curb your temper that I jest. 

"What should I gain insulting your chaste sister, 

[Rich, winces again , 

Or jesting at your father’s silver hairs? 

I sacrifice my brother to spare both. 

Rich. Well, well! But do not speak with such an air; 

It seems to mock me, though you mean so well. 

Osc. And now is the time to prove it. [ looking at hu watch. 

But remember, [laying 
his hand on Richard's sleeve. 
It is my brother, sir, you go to meet. 

Though you arrest him in his wicked purpose, 

You are to use no violence; no weapons 
Must be employ’d that may endanger life. 

And yet— Alas! he is stronger than a lion, 

And quite as brave. ’T is dreadful — but I fear 
I cannot hinder you. But be humane; 

It is the law of God as well as man. 

Rich. I will defend my honor at all costs. 

Let me go, Mr. Ferguson! [burstingfrom him. Exit. 
Osc. [after a moment's 'pause of great agitation. 

No, no! [to himself — 
Calling aloud from the door. 
Stop, sir! Come back! this instant, or, by Heaven! 

I ’ll mar your purpose ! 

Re-enter Bioiiard. 

Rich, [speahing with restrained passion. 

What’s the matter now ? 



102 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Osc. [speaMng eagerly and rapidly. 

Promise me, sir, by all that you hold sacred, 

You will do nothing against Manfred’s life! 

Swear it! no matter what may urge you ! Swear it! 
Swear! or you shall not quit the room this night. 
Rich. I do. Now let me go. [breaking away from him. 

Osc. Go. But remember! [ hold¬ 
ing him by the cuff. 
Dare harm him, and [ letting go.'] you die, sir, by my 
hand! 

[Exit, precipitately , Richard. 
Osc. ’T is over ! — Ah ! — [ wiping his forehead. 

God! w r hat a fearful struggle! 
The death-hour must have such a pang as that. — 
Now I feel better — and my heart is lighter — [sighing. 
My brother’s blood will not lie on my soul, [shuddering. 
He will not mind his fortune, — and his name, 

What ’s that to one who knows his heart is honest? 

I am sweating still; [again wiping his brow. 

that minute’s mental spasm 
Has torn my nerves to pieces. [Draws a chair to the 

table , and sits down as if to breathe. 
After a brief paused] Let me see. 

I have bargain’d for his safety, in the event 
This rude boy and himself encounter. Still, 

By keeping Mattison beyond the hour, 

I have given Manfred time to work his will. 

If passion rule, he and his charmer fly — 

Forever — for he has sworn it: this is best. 



ACT V. SC. 1. 


103 


If caught in the street together, — that is well. 

In either case, I must come up, in time 
To jerk the wire of this good puppet Dick, 

Who does my business, which he thinks his own, 

And, like full many another passionate fool, 

Will give to scandal his young sister’s name, 

And set his foot upon his father’s heart, [rising . 

To gratify revenge, perhaps some grudge, 

Which he calls honor, hut I know is — fudge! 

[.Begins to put on his clonk , and 


Scene closes. 



104 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Scene II. 

The Square, as in Act III., Scene III. 

The stage is still darker 

than in the previous representation of the scene — indicating 

the advance of the night. 

Enter, 

from the street that leads to Mattison's house, 
Manfred and Helen. 

They come foncard. Manfred has his left hand laid 
lightly on Helen’s waist, over her shawl, while 
his right holds her right hand. 

Eel. O go no further : it was here we parted; 

And here we were to meet — to part again. 

Manf. And part forever ! Was it not so sworn? 

Eel. And part — forever! 

She hesitates an instant, then 

throws herself, in perfect abandonment of all self-restraint, 
upon his shoulder and weeps. 

Manf Helen ! Mercy ! Hush ! 
Now I have need of all my strength, do not, 

Do not unman me thus, else I prove false 

✓ 

To God, to honor, to myself and thee ! 

O, it is madness in you thus to lean 

Your head upon my shoulder! I had thought 


ACT V. SC. 2. 


105 


To wrestle with my own heart solely ; yours, 

Yonrs too against my reason is too much. 

Let us stand simply thus, your hand in mine. 

Now hear me, Helen. I beheld the scene 
Between you and your father, [She starts and lays her 
other hand over his , gazing in his face in 
the extremity of surprise. 

— saw it all, 

Through the half-clos’d shutter, and I vow’d to God 
Those silver hairs should be to-night a veil 
Between your beauty and ray passion. [She raises his 

hand to her lips. 
Come; 

Your father calls us, and the eyes of God 
Look from the thousand stars to keep us chaste: 
Come, while I yet can speak thus to you! Come! 

He urges her gently on the way hack, 
in the same manner (his hand around her , &c.) 
as they had entered. 

Bel. Yes, it is right to part. And yet- 

Manf. And yet? — 
They have stopped , after taking 
hut a step or two ; and now Helen again casts herself 
on Manfked’s hreast. 

Ilel. O, I am lost to shame ! lost, lost, lost, lost! 

Maif. Helen! what is the matter? Shame and you! 

[pressing her to his hreast. 

TTel. And is’t not bitter shame, when you are cold 
And no more love mo- 




106 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Manf. Helen! [in a tone of mourn¬ 
ful reproach. 

Hel. [without attending to the interruption. 

— as you did, 

To own I dare not leave you ? that I fear 
To be alone now with my own wild thoughts? 

O God, deliver me! the hour I have pass’d, 

In waiting for this moment, I could not 
Go through again, and live: and now, and now, 

To think we never more shall meet again, 

My heart will burst — I feel it, that it will; 

And God grant only that it may be soon! 

Manf. [speaking with much agitation , while he gently 
raises her head. 

Helen! — And your poor father — that old man — 
Must he die too? You shall live, for his sake; 

And my kind cousin’s cares, hers whom you love, 

And who loves you so much, shall bring again 
Peace to your innocent heart. Come, Helen, come. 

[They move o % f. 

Think of your father; it shall be- Oh God! 

[falling back, just as they have reach'd the 
mouth of the street. 

Mel. [in turn looking up the street. 

My brother! and my father! they have quit the 
house! 

Desperately.'] Take me now where you will — my 
name is gone! 

Ever and ever! 




ACT V. SC. 2. 


107 


Man/. [catching her to his heart and hissing her. 
Ever and ever! for you are my wife ! 
Witness it God and Angels! Now I dare 
To kiss you. Helen ! [ loohing on her anxiously. 

do not faint! bear up, \untying 
the strings of her bonnet. 
Yet but a little, and we shall be home. [She falls across 

his arms. 

Ah ! And the noise comes nearer! Thus then, thus. 

Lifts her in his arms , her bonnet 
dropping to the ground , and her hair falling 
in disorder about him , and runs with her to the street at the 
left , nearest the proscenium. 

Coachman! [calling aloud , into the street. 

Down with your steps there! triple fare! 
[Exit, hissing Hel. rapturously , as he bears 
her off in his arms. 

Enter , 

after a second or Loo, from the street 
at the right corner , nearest the proscenium , 

Oscar. 

Osc. That was my brother’s lungs! What, is he chas’d? 

[turning his head toward the upper street on 
the same side , and listening. 

The hounds were close upon him: here they come. 

I ’ll whip them back to kennel, —though their legs 
Would hardly overtake a coach and pair, 

Whose driver is trebly fee’d. 



108 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Enter , 

from the street of Mattison's house , 

Mark Mattison, Richard, and Meddleham. 

Mattison and his son are without their hats or any overcoats. 

Rich, [furiously.] Too late! 

Matt, [despairingly.] Too late! 

Rich. But they shall not escape me! [making for the very 
quarter where Manf. and Eel. had actually 
disappeared. 

Osc. [arresting him.] And which way ? 
Without your hat too! 

Rich, [struggling icith him. 

To the gates of Hell! 

Osc. You ’ll sooner reach it than you ’ll gain on them. 
Rich. Why do you stop me ? Let go! But for you, 

I had been in time. 

Osc. And but for me, I think, 

You never would have known of this at all. 

[Rich, ceases to struggle. 
I stop you; first, because this is the way — 

[indicating the very street he himself had come 
from , i. e., directly on a line , in an op¬ 
posite direction , icith the true one. 
Stay! [stopping Rich., who is about to take it. 

— and because, even had the way been that , 
You hardly would run faster than a coach, 

A coach too paid for as my brother pays. 

Besides, how could you see it in the dark? 



ACT Y. SC. 2. 


109 


Matt. My daughter! O my daughter! 

Rich. Since, it seems, 

You saw all this, why did you let them ’scape? 

Osc. [ haughtily. 

Perhaps because I chose it. — But, good sir, 

Am I the Devil, or a steam-machine, 

To stop a coach that’s running, with my thumb ? 

The parties too unwilling, man and maid, 

She kissing him and urging him to speed? 

Matt. Miserable child! Lost! lost! 

Rich. Curse on her! 

Matt. Hush! 

Medd. [icho has been curiously turning over Helen’’s hat 
with his stick. 

Whose bonnet's this has fallen in the street ? 

Matt. Helen’s! Give, give it to me! ’t is my child’s. 
Rich. Ho! [snatching it from Medd ., and flinging it from 
hi?n.] Damn it! let it lie in the street, to rot, 

Or serve some strumpet’s head less vile than hers! 
Osc. [severely, and taking Rich, by the arm. 

Young man, respect at least your parent’s years, 

If you have no compassion for his woes. 

Picks up the bonnet , brushes it 
gently with his handkerchief as if to clean it of the dust , 
and hands it deprecatingly to Mattison. 

Take it, thou good old man, nor be asham’d 
To treasure it in memory of your child. 

Perhaps too she is not so vile. This hat, 

Abandon’d thus, looks little like free will. 



110 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Though reconcil’d at last, and urging flight, 

My wicked brother must have forc’d her off. 

Matt. God bless you, sir! the world has done you wrong. 
Medd. Ay, and your joke to-night did not correct it. 

The next time you assume another’s name, 

Pray let it be a better than your own. 

You are not Manfred, and, though rough, are true, 
And, had your threats been kicks, you still should find, 
An upright heart has made amends for all. 

[shaking his hand. 

Ose. I know not what you mean : but sure, the Devil 
Himself might reverence these silver hairs. 

But come, the night-air is not good for them ; 

And if we stay much longer in this place, 

10 So queerly rigg’d and with such troubled mien, 

A mob will be upon us. See already, 

Where some fool lifts a window over head. 

[(loolcing up to one of the houses , where a head 

is now seen looking out. 

Rich. But what do you propose to do? [ sulkily. 

Ose. Even this: 

To meet you at my uncle’s house forthwith. 

Manfred he loves, but never honors knaves; 

And he will aid you to a prompt redress. 

But first go home and cover that white head, 

[gently touching Rich. 
And shield that body from the pitiless cold, 

And put your own hat on; then, with all haste, 

Go to Sir Henry’s— not yourself alone, 



ACT V. SC. 2. 


Ill 


But your ag'd father, and this worthy friend. 

All must be present. You will find me there. 

Rich a no takes his father by the arm, 
who, ever since he received Helen’s hat, has 
been standing in a mute abstraction, gazing on it, 
as if he were silently weeping, and Exit with 
him down the street. 

Medd. [stepping behind to shake Oscar's hand. 

Good-by till then—to meet, much better friends. 

[Exit. And the inquisitive neighbor 
shuts down the window. 
Osc. [alone.] Ay, my old cock? And yet an hour ago 
I was about to wring your neck! ’T was then, 

When I was true, though rough, because I tried 
To give you a bloody comb, your spurs were rais’d 
And your short feathers bristling round your wattles: 
How I am really dangerous — not more false 
Saffise’s fingers when they sign the cross — 

You cackle delicate as a dunghill-hen 
That has laid an egg beside a lump of chalk ! 

So fair-and-softly wins some kindly fools, 

While others, like that boy, are devilish shrewd 
In spying out faith beneath a satyr’s mask! 

Moves onward toward the street ivhere Manfred and Helen 

made their Exeunt. 

And now to triumph, [adjusting the collar of his cloak. 

and end a good day’s work. 

Stops a moment, and looks upward. 

“ Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven ” — 



112 


THE SILVER HEAD 


As writes some great ass— Byron, I believe — 
Though one and all, compris’d the planets seven, 

Look more like fish-scales shining through a sieve, — 
At least to me, who, by such mystic phrases, 

Am taught fire sings and human diction blazes, ■— 

Ye stars, beneath whose ever-twinkling eyes 
Manfred has play’d the fool, and I been wise, 

Shine on, for other lovers like my brother, 

And let their joy be still to hug each other, 

That wiser men may thence good profit draw, 

And cull the clean wheat while they thresh the straw ! 
Manfred has gone with Helen to be blest. 

Amen! while, bidding you a bright unrest, 

[lifting his hat and bowing with mock 
reverence toward the shy. 

I — but my rhymes run out! In sober prose, 

I go, to lead — my uncle by the nose. 


\ 


[Exit 



ACT Y. SC. 3. 


113 


Scene III. and the Last. 

Same as in Act /., Scene I. 

The chandelier , or other lamp suspended from the ceiling, is 

lighted up. 

Sir Henry and Vincent. 

11 Sir E. We seem to have the parlor to ourselves! 

In waiting those rude boys, and Sybil too, 

What say you, Vincent, to a game of chess ? 

Vin. With all my heart, Sir Henry; but’t would be 
Only begun, to be abandon’d soon. 

With the first move, your lovely niece appears, 

And what becomes then of our rooks and knights? 
Sir. E. True ; though you held my king himself in check, 
I verily think you would resign the board 
At the first rustle of the beauty’s gown. 

Why, how you blush! I sometimes half-suspect 
You really love the sprightly widow better 
Than Manfred does himself. Tut, tut! that heart 

[touching Vin. playfully on the breast. 
Is not so sage, man, as its owner’s head. 

’T is well it’s honest; Manfred’s else might quake. 
But as for Sybil’s company just now, 

A carriage drove up as I pass’d the hall: 

Whom it contain’d I know not, but my niece 
Was summon’d by her maid, on some affair 
Of private nature. Doubtless’t is a visit 


114 


THE SILVER HEAD 


For some beneficent object, where her name 
Stands always foremost. 

Yin. As an angel’s should. 

The odor of good deeds is carried far. 

Despite of secrecy, each act takes wind, 

And thousands rush to gather from the tree 
Celestial, that in human garden blooms, — 

Perennial growth! but planted wide between. 

Sir. H. Bravo! that poetry and panegyric 

Shall take wind too, like Charity’s own flower, 

And bear its odors to the “angel’s” ear. 

Yin. For Heaven’s sake, no, Sir Henry! She mocks ever 
My best-turn’d compliments, and calls them dull. 

Sir H. Yon silly fellow! ’t is because they please. 

You ’re a rare judge of women ! Is he not? [turning 

round, as he hears the door open. 

Enter Oscae. 

Oh ! [as if he had expected some one else. 

— Where the deuse, fair nephew, have you been ? 
Osc. [looking significantly, hut without impertinence, at Yin. 
To see how courage well becomes a sage, 

To find even fools grow wise when madmen rage. 

To feel how easily the headstrong fall, 

And learn one meddler may confound them all. 

Sir. H. Oracular quite! But please, sir, to explain 
The riddle of these Delphic rhymes. 

Osc. Not while 

So rare a secret-fathomer stands here. 



ACT V. SC. 3. 


] 1 5 


Try his long plummet, uncle. 

Sir. H. What is this? [looIcing 
from one to the other in amazement. 
"What means this madcap, Mr. Vincent? Say. 

Vin. Pardon me, sir, I cannot gloss a muse 
I find so seldom friendly, as is his. 

Ose. And yet you might, for on my honor, sir, 

I spoke a compliment, and meant it too. 

But [shrugging his shoulders.] — as you like. 

A murmur of voices heard at the door by which Oscar had 
entered. It is then thrown open suddenly. 

Sir. U. What novel guests are these? 
Rich, [spealcing without , while Meddleham is seen coming in. 
We stand in need of no announcement here: 

Enter , 

after Meddleham, Mattison, —Biotaed supporting him 
hy the arm , and still spealcing. 

We come for justice. 

Medd. Justice. 

Matt. And my child. 

Instantly , as the icords are said , 

Enter , 

from the opposite side , Helen - , between Manfred and S^bil, 
who have , each of them , a hand of hers , 
while Sybil’s is also round her waist. Helen’s 
hair is modestly arranged. She has no shawl , hut is othci wise 
in the dress in which she met Manfred. 



116 


THE SILVER HEAD 


The whole company present are 
thrown into agitation. Sir Henry 
looks confounded ; Vincent surprised, yet 
anxious ; Oscar seems crest-fallen , Meddleiiam 
perplexed, while Mattison stretches out his arms to 
his daughter, who makes toward him, and Richard seems 
unable to move, between purposed revenge and amaze¬ 
ment at the strange turn matters seem to have 
taken. Vincent, however, moves near to 
him, as if to prevent difficulty. 

Hel. [rushing into her father' 1 s arms. 

Father! 

Matt. [ tenderly, yet holding her off,\ while he gazes 
inquiringly in her face. 

My child! 

Rich. [vehemently to Manfred. 

Explain, sir. 

Manf. [calmly, and with a 
slight gesture, turning the palm of his hand 
toward him, as if to wave him back. 
In a moment. 

Rich, [with increased vehemence. 

I claim redress. 

Matt, [holding Helen in his arms, as she 

hangs upon his shoulder. 
I ask but for my child. 

Manf. [moving toward Mattison. 

Both shall be answer’d. But I claim my wife. 



ACT V. SC. 3. 


117 


A new movement in the company. 

Vincent seems surprised , hut still more 
sad; Sybil goes up to Sip. IIenky, takes his 
hand , and appears to intercede and expostulate with 
him; Oscar seems to restrain a movement of despair; Med 
dleham goes up nearer to Manfred, contemplating him 
with interest; Richard stands irresolute and 
half-incredulous , looking from Helen to 
Manfred attentively , while Mattison 
starts from Helen’s embrace. 

Sir H. Ah! 

Yin. Fatal rashness! 

Matt. Heavens! — Helen! — Speak ! 12 
[holding her from him , and gazing on her , 

and from her to 

Manfred. 

Manf. [smiling. 

Speak, Helen ; and now say, — whose claim is best ? 
He spreads out his hands to her , 
and Helen, for answer , rushes into his arms and 
he folds her to his breast. 

Yes, sir, [extending his left hand to Rich., his right 

being still round Hel. 
I carried off your sister: ’t was, 

As I repeat, to make her truly mine. [Rich, touches 

his hand , but coldly. 
Yon, sir, 

[to Matt. 

Ask’d but your child, and you have twice your wish ; 



118 


THE SILVER HEAD 


For are you not my father too, as hers? 

[Releasing Helen , he gives his hand to the old man, 
who presses it in both of his with great emotion. 
Matt. How could I doubt you ? 

Mcdd. And the world speaks true. 
[ following, with evident admiration, Manf., as 
the latter walks up, diffidently, to his uncle. 
Manf. Uncle, forgive me ; you alone I have wrong’d. 

Sir H. Unhappy boy! ’t is not of me alone, 

Whose hopes you have so cruelly deceiv’d, 

You have to ask forgiveness, but yourself. 

This girl, though lovely, and, I doubt not, good, 

Is not your match, in birth nor in estate. 

Medd. Pardon, Sir Henry; but she is, in both. 

Sir H. Sir! Who are you, pray ? 

Medd. I’m Ralph Meddleham. 
They spell me Meddle-ham; but people say 
Middleum always, and I say so too. 

During the dialogue between 
Sin Henry and Manfeed, Helen, 
at Sybil’s motion , has led her up to her 
father, and an introduction takes place in 
dumb show , with marks of great cordiality on both 
sides. Then Sybil, icith her own hands, draws an armchair 
near the old man, and would have him sit in it, but 
he declines icith afrm and somewhat lofty air ; 
and, with her on one side and Helen - on 
the other, stands and listens, icith 
the rest of the company, to 
what follows. 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


119 


Sir H. Middleum? — Ah! [seeming to recall something, 

and looking attentively at Medd . 

Medd. Your* eldest brother- 

Sir U. Well! 

Medd. MarryM a lady of the name of Calvert. 

She was the daughter of my father’s niece. 

Sir JI. [extending his hand frankly. 

Sir, you are welcome. Though we are not kin, 

I lov’d my brother, and am glad to see 
The cousin of his wife. 

Medd. [shaking his hand.] ’T is kindly said. 

Manfred, you are my cousin twice remov’d, 

Yet are more near, by all that I have heard, 

And which this night confirms, near to my heart 
Than brothers to each other always are. 

Give me your honest hand. And your hand too: 

[to Oscar , icith whom however he shakes 
hands less cordially. 

’T is better thus than kicks and broken bones. 

Osc. Much; but a jolly way that was of yours, 

Tumbling into acquaintance on one’s back! 

[Sir H. and Manf. exchange momentary 
looks of slight surprise. 

Sir. H. Pardon me, that I venture to remind you 
Of your first theme. What has all this to do 
With the young lady Manfred would espouse ? 

Medd. The same blood, that has mixed with yours in his, 

Has mingled with Mark Mattison’s in hers: 

# 

Her grand-aunt was my mother. Pretty Helen, 




120 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Have you no welcome for your father’s cousin ? 

approaching her , she advancing to him. 

And the group, following Meddleham, is thus 
made to gather about Mattison. Meddleham takes 
Helen’s hand , and puts a hand upon her head 
admiringly and affectionately. 

Sir Henry, I have no one in the world 

To love as kin, save those I have round me now; 

And I am very rich, — so people say. 

Where shall I then find heirs, if’t is not here? 

Thus much for Helen’s wealth. As for her birth, 
To-morrow cousin Mark will make it clear 
That falleu fortune is hut fall’n estate, 

And that his cradle was such wood as yours. 

Sir H. Manfred, though Helen had been lowly born, 

And poor as lowly, I had learn’d in time 
To grow contented, happy that my boy 
Had not forgot his honor in his love, 

Nor made a wreck of innocence for pride. 

But now the world too must approve your choice; 
And since you wish it, be it so, my son. 

Oscar moving upward , and consequently apart from 
the group , seems to suffer an emotion of pain. 

Yet, well you know, my heart was set elsewhere. 
Manf. Then let me, for that heart’s sake as for mine, 

Beg for another your best interest here. 

Taking Sybil’s hand , just as she turns away , and 
reaching with his other hand Vincent, and leading him down. 
Who in this world is worthy Sybil’s love, 



ACT V. SC. 3. 


121 


But Vincent, my true friend ? 

Sir II. And next yourself, 

[Oscar returns, with fresh interest , and 

listens anxiously. 

Whom would I sooner gift with such a prize? 

[looJcing inquiringly to Sybil, icho betrays 

emotion and confusion. 
Tin. With such a sanction — might I [agitated and em¬ 
barrassed .] — dare aspire?- 

Syb. Sir! — [Then, shaking off all embarrassment by a sud¬ 
den effort , and placing her hand icith a 
noble f rankness and siceet dignity 
in Vincent's. 

’T is to stoop to such a heart and hand. 

A man of Mr. Vincent’s matchless faith 
Might dare aspire to win an empress’ love. 

Vincent presses her hand to his heart 
and lips. The company gather round them, and they 
are parted, Manfred taking Vincent’s hand, ichile Oscar, 
beyond the circle, clasps his hands passionately 
together, and bites his lips. 

Alanf. [in an under tone to Yin. 

And did win Sybil Vernon’s long ago. 

Yin. Ah! [looking earnestly at Manf. 

He then, turning round, and seeing the 
company engaged in mutual congratulation and 
introductions of the strangers to one another, &c., &c 
draics Manfred aside, or down the scene, 
close to the footlights. 




122 


i 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Tell me, frankly, was it for my sake, 

Dear Manfred, you were cold to Sybil’s charms? 
Manf. Why, man, you lov’d her: where was need of two ? 
Yin. IIow could I be so blind? You generous soul! 

[pressing doth his hands. 

Manf. You would not have me be outdone by you! 

Yours was the lesson. 

Yin. And you learn’d it well. 

They rejoin the rest, ichere Sin Henry 
has just placed old Mattison in the chair he had before 
ref used. Vincent takes Sybil’s hand with a 
movement of gratitude and deep affection. 

Hel. How I am happier, [to Sybil. 

Syb. [smiling.] What! and was there room? 

Enter Saffise, 

with muff] shaicl, and hat , dressed coquettishly, 
but according to her station. Oscar, observing her first, 
darts forward to remove her. 

Sir II. [attracted by the movement. 

What’s this ? 

Hel. Saffise! [in astonishment , exchanging 
looks with her father and brother, while, by 
pressing nearer to Manf, she seems also 
to fear. 

Osc. Begone! 

Saff. Hot till I’m heard. 

Sir H. What is the matter? 

Osc. ’T is a silly girl- 




ACT V. SC. 3. 


123 


Saff. Silly in trusting to a heartless villain, — 

But not so silly as to kiss the rod 
When she has strength to give back blow for blow — 
As you shall find! [ poising herself on her toes , and 
gesticulating as on a former occasion. 
Osc. [affecting wonder and commiseration. 
The creature ’s mad! — Come out! 

[seizes her by the arm. 

Medd. [ interfering. 

Wad ? Irish mad then: she seems far more angry. 
Saff. That is it, sir: I’m in a furious rage! [clenching her 

fist (but without raising the arm) icith 

ludicrous passion. 

You are Sir Henry Ferguson, I think; 

[moving up to Sir H. 

You will not shut your ears to me, nor suffer 
This dirty wretch, because he is your nephew, 

To abuse me — and yourself — and Helen there — 

And- 

Osc. [menacing. 

Devil! will you hold your tongue ? 

Rich, [eagerly approaching Saff.] Speak on! 
Sir H. Oscar, stand back; and you, young sir, have pa¬ 
tience. 

I am the one address’d: permit me then. 

My girl, if you have anything to say, 

Follow me to a fitter place. This way. [indicating to 

her to follow him out. 

Saff. No sir, this is the fittest place. ’T is here, 




124 


TIIE SILVER HEAD 


Where it so happens that I see around me 
All that are most concern’d to know this truth, 

That I shall tell it. Learn, your nephew there, 

That Oscar! has been seeking, by my help, 

To undermine his truer-hearted brother 
In your esteem, and ruin that young girl, 

Who, I had thought, by this time would have been 
In a different house from this. — 

Rich. By Heaven!—- 
[making a stej? toward Oscar. 

Matt. "Richard! 

Remember where you are, my son. 

Osc. Sir Henry, 

This is some villain’s plot; the girl is hired. 

You will not suffer such a hussy- 

Saff. Hussy! 

And who has made me .so? I am none but yours. 

The plot is yours, the villain is yourself; 

And for the hire, it was to hold my tongue. 

You had better hold your own; those ugly names, 
That save your brother, lose you an estate. 

Sir Henry, I am come to face this shame, 

Although it is more dreadful than I fear’d, 

For some are here that never thought me bad. 

[with a moment's glance at the Mattisons. 
Then , casting down her eyes. 

I am his mistress. Let the horrid pain, 

Of owning it in the ears of such as these, 

Make some atonement for my being such. 




ACT Y. SC. 3. 


125 


This very afternoon, did lie induce me 
To inveigle that young girl into my rooms, 

Whither he was to make his brother come, 

And did, that Helen’s weakness might be-- 

Manf. [ sternly .] Hush! 
Uncle, let her not say another word. 

Rich. She has said enough: I have proof of it. Come out. 

[to Osc., touching him smartly on the arm . as 
he passes him on his way to the door. 
Manf. [arresting Rich. 

Mattison — Richard — brother! For my sake, 
Whom doubtless you have thought too harshly of, — 

For Helen’s — for your father’s!- 

Vin. And for mine. 

. [gravely. 

Young man, you owe me some amends, for words 
Spoken injuriously, you well know where. 

Make them, by letting your own wrongs go by. 

Matt. Richard,—I do command you ! [Rich, hesitates. 

Syl). And I, sir, 

If you will let me, I — entreat you. 

She talces him by the fingers, and leads him, scarce resisting, 

to his father's chair. 

Osc. [who has icatched the whole proceeding with 
h is arms folded. 

Ohi 

Good people, this was pains superfluous: 

I will not harm the lad. 

Rich, [endeavoring to escape .] It is too much 1 





120 


TIIE SILVER HEAD. 


Matt, [icho holds him by the wrist. 

The greater merit then in your endurance. 

Stand still, my son. 

Sir H. Obey your parent, sir; 

And I, at least, will own you are a man. 

He lays his hand flatteringly on Richard’s shoulder , who 
bows , and resists no longer. 

Medd. ’T is your first step in wisdom, — and well planted. 
I like you better now than I had hop’d. [ shaking 

Richard''s hand. 

Osc. Well, I am glad the gentleman has gain’d 
Something at least he never had before. 

I shall not put to test his new discretion. 

Sir H. Silence! for shame at least, [severely. 

Osc. [without in the least 
regarding Ids uncle's interruption. 
The more so too, 

That I have similar matter on my hands, 

And much more weighty. You will not forget? 

[significantly to Vincent. 

Manf. [rapidly, and preventing Vincent from replying. 

Ah! I remember. Brother, it would seem, 

You have done, or sought to do me, grievous wrong ; 
Why I know not, nor do I ask to know. 

If you would have me to forgive you- 

Osc. [haughtily.] First, 

Wait till I ask you. 

Manf. As a favor then, 

Do not pursue this silly quarrel further. 




ACT y. SC. 3. 


127 


And you, my friend [to Vin.] - But I am sure of you. 

Osc. [carelessly. 

Well, I am no wise anxious for the sport. 

I have tried his mettle, and he well knows mine : 

If he have no wish to pursue it further ?- 

Vin. [coldly. 

It never was a quarrel of my seeking. 

Osc. Then we are quits.— And now for Texas. Saff, 

[gaily. 

What say you? will you thither? 

Saff. But you jest? 

Osc. Jest? Hot a whit of it! Plainly, will you come? 
Saff. [after looking at him steadily for a moment. 

I will. [Gives her hand boldly to Osc. to lead her out. 

The company evince extreme surprise , 

mixed with pain. 

Manf. [going up to her anxiously. 

You cannot mean it! 

Sir H. Are you mad ? 

Saff. Ho, sir ; not now, no more than I was then. 

I know your nephew, and he knows me — well. 

He dares not touch me. 

Osc. And he has no wish — 

At least in a hostile way. I’ faith, you puss! 

I like you all the better for your claws. 

We shall make our fortunes still. Who knows ? perhaps 
Some day may see me in the Governor’s chair! 

And when I am, you vixen, I may make 


« 





128 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Saffise perhaps my- [ pausing. The company 

start. Hel. even moves a step toward him , 
and Saffise herself, with evident emo¬ 
tion , grasps his arm. 
— Secretary of State. 


Eel. [timidly.] 

Saffise,— do stay; and be to me a- [attempting 

to take her hand. 
Safi. [roughly.] What? 

A foil to the splendor which I see awaits you ? 

No! never again in this accursed town 
Will I set foot. Don’t touch me! [stamping, and draw¬ 
ing hack. 
for I hate you ! 

Hel. [still timidly, yet sadly. 

Hate me, Saffise ? T never did you wrong. 

Safi. [fiercely. 

And are you not then happy ? [Hel. falls hack, in 
amazement, upon Syh. and Manf, who have 
approached to remove her from Safi'. 
Manf. Come awmy: [gently 
to Hel., and in a low tone. 
She will not understand von. 

V 

Safi. Ah! too well. 

But — pity! and from her !- 

With a broken utterance.] Sir — Mr. Ferguson — 

[pauses, casting down her eyes. 
Manf. [gently.] Say then: can I do aught for you, my girl ? 






ACT V. SC. 3. 


129 


Saff. [her whole manner altered — her voice dejected _ and 

her eyes still cast down. 

Will you permit me, sir — to — touch your hand ?_ 

If you will take the hand of—one like me. 

Manfked secretly slides a purse of 
money into his hand ere he extends it to her , which he does 
frankly , and with an air of great compassion, 
and even consideration. 

Manf. Why not ? [in a mild , low tone. 

I never scorn the unfortunate. 

Saff. Then, 

Heaven bless you I [raising his hand passionately to 

her lips. 

But not this, [offering back the purse. 

— And yet [hesitating. 

— and yet — 

It may be well to have it with me too: 

An amulet, more precious than my cross, 

’T will be to this bad bosom,—and perhaps, 

To have it there, my heart will beat the happier. 

[Kisses it and puts it into her bosom. 
Perchance a day may come too, when this gold 
May save the Creole from — a natural fate, 

And a deserv’d one you may think. Farewell! 

[with much emotion. 
Osc. [who has made one or two impatient turns while she 
has been addressing Manf., and at last faced, her 
with a sarcastic look. 

Vol. IV. — 6* 



130 


THE SILVER HEAD 


Well play’d, Melpotnend ! — G-ood people, all, 

[bowing with his hat around the assembly . 
Farewell! [mimicking Saffse's heart-broken tone. 
Turns to Man/.] With my share, added to your own, 

Of uncle’s leavings, brother, you ’ll be rich. 

Pray don’t forget the Muses, — nor to add 
( In your next acquisitions in the Arts), 

In honor of your studies in the Square, 

Cupid and Psyche to your classic groups. 

Sir II. [who has been regarding him with more and more 
indignation. 

Or say, have Power to cut him Satan, sneering 
Over the joy of Adam with his Eve. 

Osc. [bowing to Sir H. 

Adam had no fool-uncle, I believe. 


[Exit, with St iff. 

Sir H. Miserable boy! 

Man/, [rushing after them. 

O, do not let them go! 

Oscar! [calling after him. 

Sir II. [stopping Manf. and pressing his hand. 

’T is better as it is, my son. 

Is it not, Mr. Vincent? 

Yin. Yes, for both. 

Even could Oscar face his friend again, 

Manfred would grieve, conceiving in his brother 
A self-remorse perhaps he never felt. 

Manfred moves pensively to Helen, who is by her father s 
side , and takes her hand. 



ACT Y. SC. 3. 


131 


Matt. And you, my daughter, what have you escap’d! 

A nature so perverted as that girl’s! 

Not wholly bad; but even its virtues such, 

As to make dangerous her will to evil: 

’T was perilous such a contact, even for once! 

Hel. [humbly.] Thank God then, I am no more in its reach: 

It is my fortune, more than my desert. 

Matt. Nay, not so, Helen; for that were to say, 

That innocence cries up to Heaven in vain. 

Who should be heard there, if not you ? Kneel down. 
I blest you when your heart was breaking; now 
That you are happiest of all womankind, 

God keep you blest, my good, my tender child! 

Manf. And have you not a blessing too for me, 

My father ? [bowing his head before the old man. 

Matt, [laying his hand upon Manfred's head. 
Thou art blest already, son. 

Thou noble Manfred! to a man like thee 
What dower can equal such a heart as hers ! 

Pure thou hast kept her; pure she will remain; 

For men like thee stain not the thing they love, 

And even their joys have still some smack of Heaven. 
Vin. ’T is truly spoke ! 

Syb. And Manfred’s virtuous soul 
Has earn’d its joy by conquest over self. 

Manf Praise my will only ; here lay all my power. 

[placing his hand reverentially on the old man's 
locks. All but Helen look surprised. 
Yes, when you learn the story of my strife 



132 


THE SILVER HEAD 


With lust and pride, and how I won my wife, 

The conquest, you will find I rightly said, 

Was owing all to this dear Silver Head. 

As he speaks this , Manfred, being 
on the old man's right , has one hand 
gently laid on his venerable locks , while the 
other , his right, is in Mattison’s right hand; 

Helen, note risen , is on her father's left , and in the 
same attitude , saving that she presses the old mans hair 
to her lips , gathering up a cluster of the silver locks 
from his shoulder. The company , on either side 
of this principal group , are arranged ac¬ 
cording to the nearness of their inter¬ 
ests in either Manfred or Helen. 

The Curtain falls 

upon the picture. 




NOTES 



































- 


, 


















• .5 - - . f\ 1 






NOTES 


TO 


THE SILVEB HEAD 


1.—P. 10. Quiting — ] The compositor having doubled the t in 
this word, supposing it an error of copy, it occurs to me that it may 
be well to observe I mean the i should be pronounced long; quiting 
of Quite , not quitting of Quit. They are the same word. And there 
is no reason why there should not be Quite as well as Ee-quite, in the 
sense in which they are synonymous, if it be only for the uses of 
the poet, and to keep it in this usage distinct from Quit. It will 
be found again in the Double Deceit , Act IV., Sc. 2. — Chaucer so 
wrote and sounded the word. 

“ And she that helmed was in starke stoures, 

And wan by force tounes stronge and toures, 

Shal on hire hed now were a vitremite: 

And she that bare the sceptre ful of fioures, 

Shal here a distaf hire cost for to quite." 

The Monkes Tale. 

((7. T. ed. Tyrwhitt. cr. Svo. Lond. 1S30. V. III. p. 172.) 

“ Ye gon to Canterbury; God you spede, 

The blisful martyr quite you your inede.” 

Prol. to C. T. ib. I. p. 31. 

“I can a noble tale for the nones. 

With which I wol now quite the knightes tale.” 

The Milleres Prologue, ib. II. D. L 



136 


NOTES TO 


And just before, on the same page, we have quiten: 

“Now telleth ye, sire Monk, if that ye conne, 

Somewhat, to quiten with [wherewith to quite ] the knightes tale.” 

I find also in one of my dictionaries a marginal reference to The 
Old Law , Act II., Sc. 2 ; but I cannot now verify the citation. 

In the mouth of Manfred , “quite” for “requite” is not an 
improbable expression, while “quit,” in the same sense, would be 
both affected and unnatural. But the Actor may read quitting , if he 
will. 

2. —P. 12. — or left —] That is, the right , as the audience 
sits. — And so, throughout these volumes; right and left being 
always in reference to the Actor’s position, as he faces the assem¬ 
blage. 

Further, I may here observe, for those unfamiliar with the 
phraseology of the theatre, that up or upward in the stage-direc¬ 
tions means backward from the audience, while down or downward 
is towards the audience. — This also, throughout the volumes. 

3. —P. 49. Why this is capital! etc.] The stress of the voice in 
Manfred's part is on “ is ”: 

“Why this is capital! M. What is' so? 0. This—” 

If it be laid on “ What,” where it would fall more naturally, though 
not so elegantly, Oscar's part must begin “ Why this 

% “ Why this is capital! M. W T hat' is so ? O. Why, this—” 

4. —P. 54. Most strange indeed , a man so keenly quick —] For 
the Stage, “Very strange, a man, etc."; which, though slightly 
defective in metre, is the proper reading, and in fact the original 
one. 



THE SILVER HEAD 


137 


5. —P- 57. He touches Saffise on the shoulder, etc., etc.] This 
pantomime takes place while Manfred and Helen are conversing, 
but is very brief. 

6. —P. 71. Whether the hook —] For the Stage, omit from here 
to “and.” 

7-—P. 72. Bless her —] From here, five verses to be omitted. 

8. —P. 75. Whose delicate freshness , etc.] Omit this verse. 

9. —P. 75. And yet —] Omit all of the soliloquy after these 
words. 

10. —P. 110. So queerly, etc.] Omit this line. 

11. —P. 113. Sir H. etc.] Omit ten verses, commencing “Why, 
how you blush!” 

12. —P.117. SirH. Ah! Yin. Fatal rashness ! Matt. Heavens! 
— Helen !— Speak!] These three parts (Sir II, Vin ., and Matt.) are 
spoken nearly simultaneously, and instantly after Manfred's “I 
claim my wife.” 

13. —P.119. Middleum , etc., to Her grandaunt was, etc.] In the 
original MS. is the following reading for these nineteen verses. 
But that of the text is preferable. The choice is with the Theatre. 

Sir II. Middleum— Ah! [seeming to recollect something, and look¬ 
ing earnestly on Medd. 

Medd. Your eldest brother's daughter- 

Sir II. Elop’d with a young fellow of that name- 

Medd. Who was an honest fellow not the less, 

Being the Ralph, but no more young, before you. 

[Oscar moves nearer to the group , and shows great interest. 



138 


NOTES TO THE SILVER HEAD 


Sir II. You are my niece’s husband, then ? 

Medd. I was; 

But not so poor a man, nor yet so mean, 

As to be anxious to assert the tie. 

Sir II Tut! you mistake: you are most heartily welcome. 

[extending hie hand. 

You may believe me, for I boast to be 
Frank as your cousin Manfred who stands here. 

Medd. Now, that is kind, [shaking Sir It's hand cordially. 

And, cousin, your hand too. [to Manf. 

’T is better this [to Osc., with a similar action, but less hearty. 
than kicks and broken bones. 

Osc. Much. But a jolly way that was of yours, 

To pounce into acquaintance on one’s back. 

[*$7r II. and Manf. exchange looks of slight surprise. 
Sir II. And there ’s another cousin still of yours, [indicating 

Sybil with a nod. 

But first, what has this all to do with Helen ? 

Sybil coming forward gives her hand frankly 
to Medd., who takes it cordially and with marked 
admiration and surprise. 

Medd. A cousin this, worth traveling far to see. 

Syb. [smiling.] That by and by : pray speak of Helen now. 

Medd. Vho is to me much nearer than you all; 

For the same blood runs in the veins of both. 

Her grandaunt was, etc. 




THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


OR 

THE HUSBAND-LOVERS 


MDCCCLVI 


CHARACTERS, etc. 


Francesco Foscari, Doge of Venice. 

Marco Foscari, his brother , Procurator of St. Marie. 
Aloise 2 Foscari, Marco's son. 

Anselmo Baebadico, ) 

Girolamo Bembo, > Venetian gentlemen. 

Giovanni Moro, ) 

Pietro Loredano, Admiral of the Venetian feet. 

Stefano Mocenigo, of the Council of Ten. 

Domenico Maripetro, a “ Signor of the Night.” 

A Captain of the “ Signors of the Might.' 1 ' 1 
His Lieutenant. 

A Ciiaflain. 

His brother- priest. 

Two Surgeons. 

A Gondolier. 

Isotta, wife of Anselmo. 

Lutia, wife of Girolamo. 

Gismonda, a young and noble widow , daughter of Giovanni 
Moro. 

Cassandra, Isottads maid. 

Giovanna, Lutia's maid. 

Giulietta, Gismonda's maid. 

An Old Woman. 

Mute Personages 

Members of the Council of Ten. — Six Counselors of the 
Doge; Members of the Criminal QuarantTa ; and 
other bodies forming the College. 

A Laybrotiier. — Sbieri (archers of the day and night police). 
A Jailer. 


Scene. Venice^ 'in the middle of the 15 th century. 




r 

THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Act the First 


Scene I. A garden. Across the scene, a low hedge of twisted- 
reeds, dividing it into two. 

Enter , 

quichly, from the right {in the foreground), 

Isotta. 


She trips along the hedge, and loolcing over it to the right, 

claps her hands. 


Isot. Come, Lutia! come, duck! now our bears are gone. — 
To herself .] Little she dreams what sport is in the 
wind! 


Enter Lutia, 

also from, the right, but on the other 
side of the hedge. 



142 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Lut. [hissing her. 

What wast tliou saying, Isotta mine? 

Isot. 0 what? 

The old prayer, surely; that the Lord would please 
Convert the un-Christian hearts of our two lords, — 
Or break them — since thou, Lutia dear, and I 
Have too much heart to do it — as we might. 

Lut. Yes, as we might. 

Isot. Ah! say’stthou? How, I wonder 
If with like cause. — But is it not a shame, 

We foster-sisters, and dear-loving friends, 

Should have our bodies parted — not our souls — 

By house-walls, or a garden-hedge as now, 

Because, forsooth ! in John Soranza’s time, — 

Or my own ancestor’s, for aught I know, 

Doge Gradenigo, — our good lords’ bad foresires, 
Having less brains than mettle, and strong hands, 
Chose to break one another’s heads. 

Lut. So we, 

Poor innocent girls, who married their descendants, 
Must live two years close neighbors, and not see 
The inside of each other’s homes! 

Isot. What if 

Our lords reserv’d that privilege for themselves ? 

Lut. Of seeing each other’s houses? 

Isot. Ay. I know 
Of one at least who is so curious. 

Lut. I 

As well. 



ACT I. SC. 1. 


143 


Isot. Thou? Talk’st thou thus again ? But come! 
Leap thou thy neighbor’s hedge: Cassandra keeps 
Excellent watch at home. 

Lutia, 'bringing a footstool to the side of the hedge , steps over 
it with the assistance of Isotta. 

So. — [ They embrace and 
come forward. 
Did she not, 

My spouse would think this trespass nought to one 
That I might tell him of, had I a mind. 

Lut. And so might mine, change but the side o’ the hedge — 
Had I a mind. 

Isot. Hadst thou a mind? Indeed! 

Why what has thou to plain of, gentle dove ? 

Lut. As much as thou’t may be, if not the same. 

Isot. Well, to the proof. Thou ’It sorely be surpris’d, 
Angry perhaps at first. 

Lut. And so wilt thou. 

Isot. But then thou ’It laugh, I think. 

Lut. And so wilt thou. 

Isot. Thy lord- 

Lut. Thy lord- 

Isot. Giro'lamo- 

Lut. Anselmo- 

Isot. Has- 

Lut. Has- 

Isot. Made love to me. 

Lut. Made love to me. 

Isot. Thou jest’st. My lord, the haughty and severe!- 










144 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Lut. Messer Anselmo Barbadico- 

Isot. Has!- 

Lut. Made love, not hauglity nor severe, to me. 

Isotta loolcs at her for a moment confounded , 
then bursts into a jyeal of laughter. 

Isot. Why, Lutia darling, this is double sport! 

I came to make thee laugh and cry at once 
At thy lord’s impudence; and now, behold, 

I freeze and thaw in turn, to hear of mine! 

The Devil is in the men! 

Lut. Perhaps they think 

The Devil’s in us. 

Isot. That well may be for me. 

The gay and gallant hairbrain’d cavalier, 

Messer Girolamo, hopes to find sure game 
In such another rattle as himself. 

But what does grave Anselmo see to doubt 
In such a sober, gentle thing as thou? 

Lut. lie takes me for still water like himself. 

Isot. But if he has mistaken thy depth, my dear, 

We have sounded his : and that we ’ll show anon. 
How, were we like some Venice fair I know, 

Our lords might suffer somewhat, might they not? 
Lut. Now, Heaven forbid! That were to prove ourselves 
Worthy the wrong they do us, or would do. 

No, my Isotta, let us shame these men 
By showing we are above them. 

Isot. So I mean. 

But we will punish too. What! when they smite 




ACT I. SC. 1. 


145 


One of our cheeks, and we, as Christ bids, turn 

The other to them also, shall we not 

Show by the redness where the blow was given ? 

We will, and call like color into theirs. 

Lut. But not 

By striking. 

Isot. Only a love-pat. But first-- 

How long since my insatiate lord devoured 
With ogre eyes thy beauty? Did he more? 

Lut. With ogling eyes, thou mean’st. He did no more. 
And’t was enough to do, for two whole weeks, 

In street, and church, casino, and where not. 

Isot. Bor two whole weeks ! Thou lowly, shrinking violet! 
I knew my queenly roses were more priz’d. 

For one whole month thy more judicious master 
Has tried to bring them nearer to his eyes. 

Lut. How know’st thou that? 

Lsot. By trying, simple lady: 

As thou didst, I suppose. At first, surprise 
Made me distrust the Signor Bembo’s eyes. 

But seeing them shine, and with no devious ray, 

Upon his neighbor’s garden, day by day, 

I fear’d the truth, and so, to probe my fear, 

Stoop’d once my delicate flower-stalk more near. 

In other words, one morn, when full of fun, 

I look’d askance, and lo! the work was done. 

Was it not so with thee? 

Lut. In reason, yes; 

Although I cannot answer thee in rhyme. 

vol. iv. - r 

( 




146 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


I saw and doubted ; doubting then, I saw. 
Shock’d and alarm’d, in mischief half, half fright, 

I sidelong look’d as thou- 

Isot. And saw the light. 
Ha, ha! — And thus it is that men decide! 
Curious to know, or vain to mark, our power, 
"We give some day one moment’s answering look 
To all the thousand we receive. At once, 

Fired with the hope of conquest, the gallant, 
Who never asks himself if our self-love 
Or his attractions move us, lays close siege 
And calls us to surrender. Yet men say, 

We are the vainer! 

Lut. And I think we are. 

At least they are the honester. Besiege 
Or storm, their war is still in earnest. We 
Fight often without object, come to terms, 

Or parley but to make a safe retreat. 

And, if’t be gain’d by treachery, we laugh. 

Isot. So will we now, and they shall be asham’d. 
Help me, dear Lutia, to some rare device 
Shall prove we are the better. 

Lut. First ’t were well 
To make sure of their purposes. 

Isot. Thou doubt’st, 

Thou jealous pate ! Girolamo should prefer 
My livelier graces to thy sober charms, 

T et scruplest not to think those sober charms 
Have caught Anselmo’s fancy 1 Fie, oh fie 1 




ACT I. SC. 1. 


147 


That ’s vanity, that’s prejudice, that’s to see 
With purblind vision. 

Lut. Better so to see, 

Than see with eyes that magnify, or give 
False colors or distorted forms to things. 

What can we know ? This courtship of the eyes 
May be but idleness, caprice at most, 

Or masculine vanity : perhaps to try 
Our virtue. ’T is so very odd that both 
Should at one time conceive the same designs! 
hot. But quite as odd at least, that two sworn foes 
Should league together to try each other’s wives. 
And that each for his separate self should tempt 
His enemy’s but to ascertain her worth — 

Poh ! that’s too generous : Cato’s days are past, 
Though borrowing wives is full as rife as ever. 

As for mere vanity, or idle whim, 

We soon shall see that. Wilt thou give them play ? 
Lut. Encourage them ? Fie, Isotta! 

Isot. Wherefore, fie ? 

Is not Anselmo dear to me, as is 
Girolamo to thee ? Or deem’st thou haply, 

I have designs ? I were more secret then. 
t Lut. Ho, no, that is nonsense! I but mean 
We stain our reputations, seeming even 
To countenance their folly. I regret 
To have gone so far as now. 

Isot. So do not I! 

How should we find them out? And that we will; 



148 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


And make them blush in the bargain. 

Lut. At the cost 

Of our own deeper blushes, and the risk 
Of terrible results. 

Isot. Now that is nonsense. 

Why, silly child! is not our secret one? 

And will not the disclosure be ? The most 
To dread is our lords’ anger. That w'e ’ll risk. 

The game is worth it. Who shall say ? perhaps 
Our plot may end with making two sworn foes 
Fast friends. 

Lut. Ah, might that be! 

Isot. If then 

’T were Christian to effect it, ’t is our part 
As Christians to attempt it. 

Lut. Eeason good, 

But not the true one. 

Isot. Not for me. I own 
I am just so naughty — mind thou, nothing more! 

To like this mischief for itself. ’T will be 
The rarest fishing! thou with thy soft looks 
To hook the mullet Barbadico, I 
With craftier angling catch that nimble trout 
Girolamo. 

Lut. And when they ’re brought to land ? 

Isot. Why then — we ’ll roast them. 

Lut. ’Faith, there’ll be a stew ! 
Go get thy lines in order. 

Lut. What to do? 


Isot. 



ACT I. SC. 1. 


149 


Isot. Do even as Nature prompts thee: need’st thou ask ? 

But let us join our maidens in the work. 

Lut. Gladly; ’t will be new evidence. 

Isot. [looking off the scene to 
the right. 

But see! 

t 

The signal waves. My bear is coming home. 

[. Embracing , helps Lut. over the hedge. 
Remember now, be bold. We ’ll try whose spouse 
Will make the best gallant. 

Lut. I ’ll wager, mine. 

Isot. I, mine, so thou wilt lure him. Ply thine eyes, 

In street or room, in playhouse or at mass. [Lutia 

going ; Isot., also going on her side , 
shaking her fist. 

O signor mine! I ’ll make thee such an ass! 


[Exeunt. 



150 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene II. 

The Piazzetta, or smaller Square of St. Marie. 

On one side, the Ducal Palace, with the Church of St. Marie 
adjoining. On the other the “ Procuratie” (official 
apartments of the “ Procurators of St. Marie''''). Oppo¬ 
site the Church, the Bell-Tower. In the background are 
seen the two Columns, with their statues, one of St. Mark, 
the other of St. Theodore. — Near the columns a group 
of women. Persons of various classes are walking about. 
And on the u Broglio' n (noblemen's walk on the Palace 
side of the Square) are distinguished, by their sable 
gowns, the nobles. 

Enter 

Isotta, with Cassandra behind her , 
the latter carrying a missal. 

Then, 

at a little distance, following them, 

Girolamo. 

As they cross the stage, Isotta looks back over her shoulder 
invitingly on Girolamo, then Exit with Cassandra 
at the left. Girolamo comes forward. 

Oirol. Eh, eh! the fruit is ripening fast. Metliinks 
’T will need but little shaking. Now, the maid 
Leer’d on me too, with most significant eye. 


ACT I. SC. 2. 


151 


Is she the guardian of thy orchard-wall, 

Messer Anselmo, I am apt to climb. — 

"What if I follow, and invite the girl 
By signs to parley ? If the lure succeed, 

’T is well. If not, I can but cast again. 

[Exit after them. 


Enter Anselmo. 

He holds a small and tightly folded note. 

Ansel. Madonna Lutia, either thou art false 
And a fit partner of thy flippant spouse, 

Or thou respondest to my passionate love. 

Thy soul should be the mate of mine: thy mien 
Tokens deep thought, and on thy pensive brow 
Is no coquetry. Have I Avon thy heart? — 

Shouldst thou betray me; read my written vows, 

As women will do, to thy jeering friends! 

The sword of my hereditary foe, 

That were a trifle; but to face the laugh, 

The scorn perhaps, of half of Venice, who 
Would deem my passion a dishonest plot 
Against my enemy’s peace! Were better death. — 
But is there danger ? Here is writ no name, 

Neither her own nor mine ? What could she prove ? 
Given in her hand at this convenient hour, 

By one of those she-Mercuries [looking up the scene , 

on the group near the columns. 
whose post 



152 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Is here in public and who know me not, 

’T is hers or not, just as she lists; but not, 

She cannot charge the missive unto me. 

Hark thou, old woman! [ beckoning to one of the group. 

But , before he can repeat the call, or has 

attracted notice, 


Enter, from the left, 

Lutia with Giovanna. 

Heaven! here’s Lutia’s self! 
Lutia crosses the stage close before him, looking 
sidelong but demurely at him, and, just as she passes 
him, drops her handkerchief. Anselmo picks it in¬ 
stantly up , folds the note in it, and hands it to her. As she 
returns his boics, and curtsies her acknowledgment, Lutia 
shows consciousness and embarrassment. Exit with 
Gioyanna, at the right. 

’T is done now — as I did not think to do it. 

But so’t is better, though undesign’d. That blush ! 
That conscious look! Ah here is no betrayal; 

No treachery lurks beneath those drooping lids! — 
Was not that handkerchief dropp’d on purpose too, 
That I might speak or touch her hand ? — Girolamo, 
Thou ’It pay my grandsire’s dues against thy House! 
But in a coin thou wilt not care to count. — 

What shall I do, to master this wild joy? 

’T will make a fool of me. — I’ll take my gondola, 
And rove about until my blood is cool. 



ACT I. SC. 2. 


153 


Pausing a moment , to look in the 
direction which Lutia had taken, he goes up the stage , passes 
through the groups, and Exit. 

Re-enter, from the left, Cassandra 
followed by Girolamo. 

/ 

She looks half-round, coquettishly, upon him, 
as her mistress had done. Girolamo stops her, and leads 
/ her forward. 

Girol. A word, my pretty damsel. What’s thy name ? 

[chucking her under the chin. 
Cass. Cassandra, Excellence. 

Girol. Cassandra? Not, 

I hope, a prophetess of ill to me ? 

Cass. Ill ? O, I wish you all the good, I’m sure, 

That — somebody I wot of wishes you. 

Girol. That somebody is not thy master. 

Cass. No : 

Not he indeed ! Now, should I like to tell 
Who’t is. But you would tell it, too. 

Girol. Who? I? 

Not I, child! There, [kissing her. 

Now, if I tell, thou canst 

Tell that of me. 

Cass. O fie! in the open Square! 

A gentleman — an humble girl like me ! 

Girol. Who sees ? 
[looking up the stage. 

Or who would mind it, if he did ? The world 



154 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Is much too busy with its own intrigues. 

Come ; who is my well-wisher ? 

Cass. You ’ll keep faith? 
Girol. Have I not given you pledge ? 

Cass. Well, do’t again, 

Lest you forget it. [Girol. —first looking up the stage 

— hisses her again. 

Girol. What a jade it is ! 

If like the maid the mistress, as they say, 

I have been belike too modest. 

Cass. That she’s not. 

She would not let you kiss her in the street. 

Girol. In the house, then. But, prithee, what’s her name ? 

Is it thy mistress then that means me well? 

Cass. What’s she you look’d on amorously but now, 

She I attended from St. Fantin’s church? 

Girol. The Ser Anselmo Barbadico’s spouse. 

Cass. Daughter of Messer Marco Gradenigo, 

Late Procurator of St. Mark, and nam’d 
Isotta. 

Girol. Even so much I knew. 

Cass. Is she 

Worthy a gallant gentleman’s devoir? 

Girol. Worthy! Where is her equal, far or near ? 

Cass. Is not Madonna Lutia fairer? 

Girol. Come! 

I want no sermons, though thou ’rt fresh from church. 
I do adore thy lady. 

Cass. And she, you. 



ACT I. SC. 2. 


155 


Girol. My dear Cassandra ! [hugging her. 

Cass. Keep away! Am I 
My lady’s rival? And think where we are. 

Now, you must know when late you pass’d us by, 
Madonna said, “Cassandra, there’s a leg !” 

Girol. Thou liest, thou little rogue! 

Cass. I did not say, 

She said, “ Behold a good one!” nor, “ a stout.” 

She simply cried, “A leg.” She saw the heel: 

The rest was hidden in your sable gown. 

Girol. T swear I ’ll beat thee, Cassy! 3 

Cass. Will you now ? 

Then I am off. What did you stop me for ? 

[affecting to go. 

Girol. I ’ll tell thee presently, [tahes out his purse. 

See thou here, [opening it. 
Cass. Oh stay, 

There’s something more, though not about the leg. 
One day, when you were standing by your door, 
Caressing a small dog, my lady said, 

Sighing, “I would I were that little cur!” — 
“Madonna, why?”— “Because”— she sigh’d 

again — 

“ The Ser Girolamo has so white a hand.” 

Girol. Say’st thou, my mocking waiting-woman? Well, 
Let thy mirth pay thee, [affecting to put back his 

purse. 

Thou ’rt a little fool. 

Cass. I were, to let you go away displeas’d. 



156 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


A hand and leg are really no mean parts. 

Yet not for those alone my lady loves you. 

Girol. Oanst thou be serious for one moment? 

Cass. Two. 

What does vour Excellence command? 

Girol. Take this. 

[.giving her b ducat of gold. 
Cass. Is it for me, or for my mistress ? 

Girol. Pish! 

Here is another piece of gold. Wilt thou 
Bear me a message to thy lady’s ear? 

Cass. O yes, I ’ll tell her that you doat on legs, 

And wish you were the mass-book in her hands. 
Girol. Hark thou, fair Trojan! I am mirthful too; 

But there’s a time for all things. See thou then, 

We shall be noted, standing here so long. 

Cass. And what too, should my master .come this way! 

[draws her scarf over her head. 
Girol. [his hand upon her arm. 

Come then, if thou wilt prate, beneath the arches; 
Or, follow me to my gondola. 

Cass. No, no. 

Be brief; and pardon me. I did impose 
On your good temper. 

Girol. Wilt thou bear my word? 

Cass. I will, and truly. 

Girol. But how do I know 
Thy lady is not mocking me through thee? 

Cass. By your own eyes, which must have seen ere this 



ACT I. SC. 2. 


157 


What passes in Madonna’s heart; and by 
Your consciousness that as you are not pleas’d 
With Monna Lutia, so Messer' Anselmo 
May be too owlish for my lady’s taste. 

Like pairs with like: and ye are like. 

Girol. Well said. 

Thou art a cunning giglet. Plead my cause. 

There is thy fee. If thou shouldst gain my suit, 

Thou hast the triple of it. 

Cass. What to sue ? 

$ 

Girol . Sue for an hour’s meeting. Where and when 
I leave to her own gracious will. 

Cass. How sue ? 

Girol. Sue by my passion; sue by her own charms ; 

Ask in thy own heart — ’t is a woman’s; there 
Are all thy law-books, — and thou hast thy brief. 

Go, pretty advocate, and bring me fortune. 

Cass. You are a gallant gentleman. I would, 

In sooth I would, it were another suit 
Than to your neighbor’s wife. 

Girol. Thou ’rt not to preach. 
The worse my cause, the better shalt thou plead. 
Paint what I feel; thou canst not paint too warmly : 
Say what thou seest; but see with kindly eyes. 

Cass. And shall I tell her all ? 

Girol. Tell all — but this. 

[hissing her. 

Cass, [extricates herself with a laugh , then , shaking her 
finger at him. 



158 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Nay, I ’ll tell all; it were a sin to miss. 

A leg ! a hand ! and O ma’am, such a kiss ! 

[Exit Cass, at the left. 

Girolamo loolcing after her a moment , 
half in vexation, half in satisfaction , goes up the stage to 
mingle with the nobles on the Broglio , and 
Scene closes. 


Scene III. 

The Garden — as in Scene I. 

ISOTTA. LUTIA. GlOYANNA. 

hot. [loolcing up from a letter she has been reading. 

So far, thou hast won the wager. Who ’d have 
thought 

The dignified Anselmo was so sly ? 

So boldly gallant too ! and so adroit! 

Lut. ’T was featly done. He must have had good practice. 
Isot. Ay, but the kerchief was as nicely dropp’d. 

I must be cautious: thou art stately too. 

Lut. Fie now, Isotta ! Jealous ? 

hot. Jealous ? Hum ! 




ACT I. SC. 3. 


159 


’T is the scant brook that bubbles o’er the stones; 
Deep lakes are placid. 

Lut. Always ? Now, methinks, 
Rough waters do most mischief. 

Isot. Let us see. [affecting 
anxiously to read the letter. 
Here are a dozen fires, and pains, and faiths: 

O sanctity! And here- Why here, he boasts 

Of favoring looks ! 

Lut. I never gave but one — 

Always except this last, which was agreed. 

And then the note was written. 

Isot. Mere evasion! 

Would he have ventur’d else ? so proud ? so shy ? 
Thou art the lake. Thy depths shall not ingulf 
My treasure, my lord’s love. 

Lut. Isotta dear! 

Isot. Thou shalt not grant this meeting which he prays: 

I will not trust thee. 

Lut. Thou shalt have no need. 

’T was not my project; and I like it not. 

But seems it- 

Isot. Peace! I will have my revenge. 

Enter Cassandra, in great glee. 

Now comes my turn. — 

Lut. Giovanna, to the house, 

And watch for both. [Exit, over the hedge , Giovanna. 





160 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Isot. Well! Hast thou lur’d the hawk? 
Did the trout nibble ? Is the leopard snar’d ? 

Cass. See here! [ holding up the two gold pieces . 

And here — and here — and here: 
\touching her lips with her hand three times. 
And here again! [puts her arm around her own waist 

caressingly. 

Isot. Three kisses, and a hug! 

Why here’s a brave gallant! What say’st thou now ? 

[to Lut. 

Thy man is worse than mine! [Lutia has turn'd away. 

Why, Lutia dear, 

Thou art not crying? Couldst thou think indeed, 
That I was jealous? Jealous? Jealous, I? 

And jealous too of thee ? My own dear girl, 

My sister ! Thou shalt have Anselmo all, 

And keep Girolamo too. How, do but laugh! 

Lut. How can I laugh to know my lord so vile? 

Isot. Vile ? Art thou crazy ? He is but a man; 
Girolamo Bembo, not Girolamo Saint. 

Why what a child thou beest! I’ll*wager now 
My wedding-robes against thy bedroom-gown, 

This wanton tempted him. Come, didst thou not ? 
Cass. Only one kiss. The rest were volunteer’d. 

The hug was all his own. 

Isot. [laughing heartily , while Lutia 

smiles. 

Eh, Lutia, see! 

This jolly wight was surely meant for me. 



ACT I. SC. S. 


161 


How wilt thou change him for my sober lord ? 

Lut. [to Cass. 

But what was all this for ? 

Cass. This what, Madonna? 
This kissing? or this hugging ? In good sooth, 

I think he took me for my lady here. 

Isot. Out, baggage! Am I such a colt as thou ? 

Cass. I cannot tell, Madonna; but he said, 

He had been too modest, — mistress like, like maid. 
Lut. There now, Isotta! 

Isot. ’T is her wanton pranks. 

Thou hast overdone thy part, thou naughty jade! 
What didst thou tell him ? 

Cass. That you prais’d his leg — 
Although you never saw it. 

Lut. Brava! ) nearly 

Isot. Heigh! ) together. 

Cass. And seeing his white hand on a greyhound lie, 

You wish’d yourself the puppy for its sake. 

Isot. I vow I’ll beat thee! 

Cass. So he threaten’d too. 

You are so alike! 

Isot. I ’ll pinch thee black and blue! 

Thou hast marr’d our acting. 

Cass. No, I mind my cue. 

I made him think you so ador’d his face, 

He fairly hugg’d me — in the public place ! 

Lut. Thou hast taught her well — thy rhyming too, I see. 
Isot. But never mind; the hug was not for thee. — 



162 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


And finally, wliat bring’st thou from my swain ? 

Cass. These golden ducats. 

hot. They ’re for thee, not me. 

Cass. To plead his passion. 

hot. A retaining-fee. 

Cass. The suit once won, my client makes the twain 
A pair of triplets. 

hot. Briefly, what to gain? 

Thou keep’st Madonna Lutia in her pain. 

Cass. Messer Girolamo bids me thus to sue. 

By his own passion, by his lady’s charms — 

That is not Monna Lutia’s ? — you would grant 
Your knight an interview; the when and where, 

That leaves he safely to your modest self 
hot. Ha, ha! ’T is done! We ’re quits: the game is 
square. 

Thy note is match’d. Was ever such a pair! 

Lut. Nay, thy Anselmo was the first to woo. 
hot. But thy Girolamo has courted two. 

His suit takes time: too fiery to be stay’d, 

He tries his mettle on my waiting-maid! 

Cass. Perhaps ’twas offer’d as a sample-bliss: 

I told him I should recommend his kiss. 

Lut. Now what’s to do? 

hot. Is that a point to moot? 

Do as kind ladies, grant to each his suit. 

Now, shut that little mouth! [putting her hand, on 

Lutia's lips. 
I ’ll not hear nay. 



ACT I. SC. 3. 


163 


¥e ’ll meet the pair. 

Lut. But not in their own way? 

Isot. No, plan we both ; thou in thy closet, sweet, 

And I in mine. 

Lut. To plot, when next we meet. 

/ 

Isot. Adieu! Take this — and this — and this: [kissing 

her three times. 
this too. 
[hugging her. 

Cassandra brought them. 

Lut. But to give to you. 

Isot. I wave my right. 

Lut. [kissing her in turn. 

Nay, keep them : they ’re thy due. 

[ Goes over the hedge. 

Isot. How is ’t, Cassandra? 

Cass. I no difference see : 

Ye have the shells; the oyster rests with me. 

Lut. [from over the hedge, and going. 

Adieu, Isotta! 

Isot. ’Drina, 4 let us flee. 


[Exeunt omnes. 



164 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Act the Second 

Scene I. A room in the house of Giovanni Moro. 

Moeo. Gismonda. 

» * 

Moro. It boots not to remonstrate; I am fix’d: 

The Doge’s nephew shall not enter here. 

Gism. PoorAloise! I have heard thee say, 

Father, he was a brave and noble youth. 

Moro. Thou may’st again, if that will do thee good. 

The son of Marco Foscari, men report, 

Is a magnanimous and right valiant soul, 

Though rash and over-ardent: faults perhaps 
These of his yet young blood. I grant him too 
One quality more, appropriate to his rank, 

That thy late husband wanted. He is rich; 

At least will be, when Marco sleeps with Mark. 

Poor Niccolb Delfino, though a brave 
Good husband and right worshipful cavalier, 

Left thee scant store of zeccliins. ’T was thy choice. 
I have not repented then I gave thee way. 5 
But now I will not. 

Gism. Yet, dear father, hear!- 

Moro. Hot a word more! Must I repeat, Gismonda, 

That with the hated blood of Francis Foscari 
No drop of Loredano’s ever mingles? 



ACT II. SC. 1. 


165 


Gism. Ours is so small a drop ! Ve are but cousins, 

Four times remov’d. And tliou liat’st not the Foscari. 
Moro. Mo, but I am the Admiral Pietro’s friend. 

He scorn’d the Doge’s daughter for his son: 

I cannot give the nephew of the Doge 
My only child; and for a twofold cause. 

First, I should rouse dark Loredano’s hate; 

A fearful man! that never yet forgave; 

Then Marco Foscari’s, who has promis’d, thou know’st, 
His son to Lisa, daughter of his friend, 

The rich Avvogadore, Morosini. 

Gism. Alas! 

Moro. Alas ? Alas for me, thou meanest. 

Should I not waken too the Doge’s ire ? 

Blunt though I be, I want no man’s ill will, 

Though I court no man’s favor. 

Gism. But these feuds! 
Father, there are our neighbors, the Messeri 
Bembo and Barbadico: who can hate 
More cordially than they ? whose sires, they tell, 
Even in'Doge Soranza’s time — that’s now 
More than a hundred years — were foes. Let see ! 
They married foster-sisters and warm friends, 

Who for their sakes meet never, save abroad. 

Moro. What’s that to Marco Foscari’s son and thee? 

His sire is not consenting as theirs were. 

I have no feud with Foscari. But I say — 

A plague upon thy womans-cares! I say — 

I say, I ’ll not wake Loredano’s spite. 



166 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Let the Duke’s nephew carry his pretensions 
To Lisa; this is interdicted ground, 

Like Berabo’s house to Barbadico’s spouse. 

Gism. Poor Aloise! his impassion’d soul- 

Moro. Impassion’d pudding ! "What’s his soul to me ?* 
Go get thee a new lover; men are cheap. 

Gism. I had not thought to hear this from those lips. 
Men cheap, my father ? Is it then of men 
Like Aloise Foscari thou speakest? 

Brave as his warlike uncle, generous, just, 

Sagacious, resolute, where wilt thou find 
More honor for our House, a stouter prop 
For thy declining years, a nobler hope 
For thy large heritage through thy only child, 

Than the Duke’s nephew, Marco Foscari’s heir? 

As lofty a spirit as ever grac’d a throne ! 7 
Moro. "Were it the Duke himself, I might relent, 

But being his nephew only, I will not. 8 
As for the honor, Foscari is no more 
Than Moro; for my years, as yet, thank God! 

They are not much o’er the hill-top; when declining 
Into the vale, I ’ll hear thee talk of props. 

And for my heritage, ’t is no fault of mine 
Thy bed is yet a widow’s. Make thy choice. 

So he be not a citizen or tradesman, 

Gambler or brawler, drunkard or a thief, 

John Moro will not say Gismonda nay. 9 
Gism. My choice is made: I cannot change it, father. 

My faith is given : thou wouldst not have it broke ? 




ACT II. SC. 1. 


J 


167 

Moro. Then so are mine. And this is choice and faith : 
Let Foscari be thy lover, an’ thou will; 

But it shall not be in thy father’s house. 

Thou hast been wedded; thou canst make thy home 
Even where thou wilt. But let thy scanty means 
Furnish thy narrow household. By St. John ! 

I will not give one zecchin in thy aid! 

Gism. O be not so obdurate ! 

Moro. Not one zecchin! 

If Marco to his disobedient son 

Will prove more kind, I wish thee joy of it. [Going. 

Gism. Be not so angry, dear my father !- 

Moro. [breaking from her ; but coldly. ] Peace ! 

Gism. If Aloise- 

Moro. Be a fool, must thou ? 

Thou hast heard my reasons, and thou knowest my 
will. 

Do thy own pleasure. But of this rest sure : 

If Procurator Marco’s son come in, 

Messer Delfino’s widow shall go out . 10 [Exit. 

Gism. And I might find it in my heart to do so, 

Thou art so unsympathetic, and so harsh. 

But thou wouldst then be childless and alone. 
Childless alone! Heaven pardon me the thought I 
’T was sinful-selfish. And then Aloise! 

To involve him in distress!— But what to do? 

It is liis hour! — 

Goes hastily to a door in the back of the scene , and opens it , 

displaying a corridor. 





168 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


What, Giulietta ! 11 {dapping her hands. 

Quick! — 

If they should meet! My father’s sullen mien — 

And his quick temper!— 

Enter , through the door , 

Giulietta. 

To the basement! haste ! 

Is Messer Aloise landed, lead him 
Somewhere away, and tell him this from me: 

My sire has knowledge of his visits here 

And will not longer bear them. Does he love me, 

He will not press to come — not now; my father 
Is sullen, when oppos’d. —If not yet come, 

Wait thou his gondola, and wave him off 

To the next Canal. There haste to meet him. Go. 

Bid him have patience. 

[Exit Giulietta. 

Patience ? And I need 
So much myself! I made so sure to-day 
That I should see him! I so little thought 
My father would be adverse ! — Aloise ! 

Wilt thou preserve unstain’d thy maiden faith? — 
Between two hostile influences; and the charms 

Of Lisa Morosini- O my heart! 

The sacrifice which threatens will prove hard. — 

If Aloise tempt me to rebel- 

My lonely sire ! Again that selfish thought. 

I must not think it. Yet these senseless feuds! 





ACT II. SC. 2. 


169 


What are their hates to us ? If Marco Foscari, 

Who dotes upon his gallant son, give way, 

(My sire is rich as Lisa’s, —may he not ? ) 

And move my colder father ! 0 dear hope ! 

Let me not lose thee! Though it rain to-day, 

The sun shines out to-morrow. Then comes peace — 
Comes father’s blessing — comes joy—comes Aloise! 

[Exit. 


Scene II. 

The Piazetta — as in Act I. Sc. II. 

In the background, scattered groups and promenaders. 

After some moments , 

Enter, from the side, Giulietta, 
followed by Aloise. 

She comes forward, stojts, and awaits him. 

Alo. What is it, girl ? How fares thy lady ? Speak ? 
Giul. Well. Messer Aloise; well, but vex’d. 

Vol. IV.- 8 




170 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


His Excellence, my master, — -who, be ’t said 
Between us, is the crossest crab alive — 

Always sour and sullen, as if he meant to snap, 
Like the old crocodile on the pillar-top 

Of San Teodoro yonder- 

Alo. Well, well, well! 

Giul. Has been I suppose in such an ugly mood, 
Madonna bade me*haste to you, to say 
You are not to come to the palace any more; 
His Excellence has found you out.— 

Alo. Me out ? 

Giul. Both of you out: which is a burning shame ; 
I made so sure your Excellence and she 
Would one of these days be fix’d together fast, 
Like Adam and Eve at Marco’s corner yon. 

Alo. Art thou quite sure ? 

Giul. As I am standing here. 

I know it because she bade you patience have. 
She had not done this, had she not made sure 
You’d not have any. 

Alo. O Giulietta dear! 

To-day I was to have seen her. ’T is so long 
Since I have heard her speak, except to say 
Good-morrow, or Good-even! Canst thou not 
Admit me for a little while, — by stealth, 

If so it must be ? 

Giul. Now ? Messere, no. 

The master is at home. And so my lady 
Bids you take note, “he is sullen if oppos’d.” 




ACT II. SC. 2. 


171 


Which means you must, I take it, for her sake, 

Not put your fingers in the old crab’s claws. 

“Does he love me, he will not press,” she said, 
“Not now, to come.” 

Alo. I will not then, not now. 

But now is not forever. When her sire 
Is no more at the house, then may I come. 

Go back and tell her, Giuliet, I will wait — 

Until she hang some signal — say, a glove, 

Out at her window. Never shake thy head. 

Who shall know aught of it? Is the Casa Mora 
Not built like other noble houses here ? 

The women’s rooms are in the hinder part, 

Divided from the men’s? 12 Is not that so? 

Giul. Happily so. A wise provision, where 
Such gruff old lords as Messer Moro rule. 
Unhappily though, or happily, for you, 

Just as you rate Madonna, she is built 
Unlike some other noble ladies here, 

At least in the inside. She will not consent 
To have you come to the hinder part of the house. 
Alo. I did not mean it, girl. I but beseech her 
To make some sign when she shall be prepar’d 
To admit me as before. 

Giul. That cannot be; 

Not till this storm, whate’er it be, is over. 

When sudden winds sweep over the Lagune, 

Your gondoliers make instantly for the shore, 

And wait till the flurry is spent. So must you do, 



2 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Or look to get a ducking, or be drown’d. 

Monna Gismonda begs you will have patience. 

When it’s fair weather, Messer Aloise, 

You can put out again. 

Alo. But until then ! 

But until then ! Think of my torments, girl! 

And think of hers ! Have pity on us both ! 

I have so much to say ! I cannot rest 
Until I know what this new trouble is. 

And she, how she must long to tell me ! Go 1 
Go, tell her that I must, I must, will see her! 

Go, for thy lady’s sake, if not for mine ! 

Oiul. How does your Excellence know Madonna suffers? 
Alo. By my own feeling. If she do not long, 

And in her longing suffer, as I do ; 

If she would not give up a week of life 

For one hour’s talk with me, as I would gladly, 

O a whole twelvemonth! for an hour with her. 

Then will I beg no more ; she is unworthy 
Of love like mine. 

Giul. She is not! notunwortliv!— 

v 

How, do not stop this little brain of mine; 

I am contriving. — Let me see. — I have it! 

How will the night do ? Could you talk in the dark, 
In the open air, as well as in a room ? 

Alo. Dear Giuli'etta! Giuliettina! Speak!* 

[taking her hands. 

Giul. Pray, don’t make love to me. How, do keep still! 
’T is not in the dark here, tlio’ it’s open enough. 





ACT II. SC. 2. 173 

And I am not Madonna. Since you know 

So well the woman’s side of the house, you know 

There are balconies 13 on the second floor 

To all the windows. Could your Excellence climb 

To the large middle one ? ’T is not a steep 

So easy as the Bell-Tower ; nor the view 

Quite so extensive ; but you ’ll like it better. 

Alo. 1 ou are an angel! \about to hug her. 

Giul. Now, now, do forbear! 

I am ticklish. — Well, what will your Excellence do? 
And what shall I? 

Alo. Do? do? Go back at once. 

Say to Madonna, will she please let down- 

xVt what hour were it best? 

Giul. About the fourth. 

’T will then be midnight, and the Ca 14 Yeniero 
Will like our own be quiet. 

Alo. —Will she please 

With her fair hands let down- 

Giul. Or better, mine, 

Which are not fair- 

Alo. Peace, saucy one! —Letdown 
From the mid window, when St. Mark tolls four, 15 
A length of cord, I will make fast thereto 
A hempen ladder. 

Giul. Which we two draw up 
With our four hands, and fasten to the rails. 

Well, Messer Aloise ; but ill-reckon’d. 

There is this to add to the account: Madonna 






174 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


May not consent. 

Alo. How canst thou be so cruel? 

Hast thou not words ? and canst thou not persuade ? 
Thou knowest her humor well. But tell her tins — 
And it is solemn truth; I shall not rest 
Until I see her; care will murder sleep. 

Tell her, O tell her, all that thou canst think, 

All thy own heart may teach, to move her pity. 
Thou canst not say too much, or make my love 
More than it is, my suffering than ’t will be. 

Take thou this ring, Giulietta. ’T is a ruby 
Of no mean value. Wear it for my sake, 

An earnest of the good I mean to do thee, 

Wilt thou he kind. 

Giul. Ho, Messer Aloise. 

You are a generous young lord, I see, 

As men report you, and Madonna thinks. 

But keep the ring. I need it not from you. 

When you are wedded to Madonna Mora, 

Then will I take your presents. How, farewell. 

If I can win Madonna to consent, 

She will to-night admit you, it may be 
Even to her chambers, since I shall be there. 

Alo. Bear Giulietta! 

Giul. Hot yet; not so fast. 

St. Geminy! Take heed! if not more slow 
To-night in climbing, you may get a fall. — 

Once more: — In half an hour, pass you the house. 
If I have won Madonna to vour suit, 

v 7 



ACT II. SC. 2. 


175 


You will see a red string hanging from the easement. 
’T is there, at that balcony, you will mount, [going. 
Alo. Giulietta! Giuliettina! Stop, awhile. 

Thou art a precious maiden. When I make 
Monna Gismonda mine, then will I find thee 
A brave young husband for thyself. 

Giul. Like you ? 

Thank you, Messere. Such a one shall need 
Ho ladder to climb up to me. Farewell, [going. 

Alo. ’T is thou art hasty, now. Thou hast not heard all. 
To-night I’ll fling a pebble at the casement, 

When the bell tolls; so will she know’t is I. 

Giul. You are then quite sure Madonna is to yield ? 

Alo. Sure in your dextrous handling. 

Giul. Right! How else? 
I have two men to throw for: you for her, 

And a brave husband like yourself for me. 

[Exit. 

Aloise stands still a moment , loolcs about him , 
then slowly follows her. 



176 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene III. 

The Apartment of Gismonda. 

A room having a large casement-window , extending to the 
floor , and opening on a balcony. 

Gismonda 

walling impatiently about. 

Gism. What can detain lier ? What is there to say ? 

He is filling now her happy ears with words — 
Words of deep love and passionate prayer— for me : 

lie is teaching her persuade me- 

listening.] Was that she? 

Ho; ’t was the sea-breeze playing through the blinds.—- 
He is teaching her to move me to have pity. 

Ah, Aloise! Aloise ! here, 

Here, here already, all the words of love 
That thou canst send me, in my brain are stirring : 
The heart inspires them fast as thou canst speak; 
They plead as warmly for thee, as thy words, 

„Even could I hear thy own lips utter them, 

Could plead for thee; they plead to my own heart, 
Coming from my heart, and plead too for my heart. 

O in this void that is such pleasing pain, 

This thrilling of the pulse- 


starting ] Thatl that is she 1 




ACT II. SC. 3. 


177 


Runs eagerly to the side scene 

as Enter Giulietta. 

Gismonda draws her eagerly forward. 

At last! at last! I thought that thou wast (lead. 
Giul. I am almost dead with running — up the staircase. 
Gisin. What said he? What said Messer Aloise? 

Giul. What did he ? What did Messer Aloise ? 

O he’s a rare gallant! 

Gism. Quick! Giulietta! 

What said he? 

Giul. Messer Niccolb Delfino- 

Gism. Leave Messer Niccold Delfino bury’d. 

Giul. With all my heart. He has been two years fast 
sleeping; 

I do not w r ish to wake him. He was but 
A log to your new husband, that will be. 

Gism. Why, what means this? What ’s got into the girl? 
Giul. Pure love and admiration. Such a noble ! 

He tried to hug me. 

Gism. I am much oblig’d to him. 

Giul. He call’d me Angel. 

Gism. It was very kind. 

Giul. [ laughing. 

Now don’t, now don’t be jealous, dear Madonna! 

’T was all on your account. 

Gism. I do not like 
Such gifts by proxy. . 

Giul. No, our natural wants 


8* 




178 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Are best serv’d by ourselves. So I refus’d 
To taste for you, Madonna. 

Gism. Giulietta! 

This is a style- 

Giul. Now do not be displeas’d! 

I really think, Madonna, for your sake, 

I am more than over head and ears in love 

'With Messer Aloise: and I promis’d- 

Gism. Well, well, Giulietta, tell me thine own way, 

Since thou wilt not in mine. But prithee, child, 

Why twin’st thou that red ribbon round thy fingers? 
Giul. It is my garter, Madam, which I dropp’d 
In coming up the stair. I would not then 
Take time to put it on. 

Gism. Well, put it by. [Giul.puts the 
string into her "bosom. 

Now say, what said he? 

Giul. All that man could say. 
lie had made so sure to see you! [ Gism. sighs. 

’t was so long 

Since he had seen you! he should never rest 
Till he should see you! he was so perplex’d 
lie could not see you! he so long’d to hear 
Why now he could not see you! And, in short, 
Distress’d, bewilder’d, full of love and pity, 

I promis’d him- 

Gism. Ha! what? 

Giul. That vou would see him. 
Gism. Thou art the sauciest- 







ACT IT. SC. 3. 


179 


Giul. Best-disposed poor creature. 
Pardon me I dare interrupt, Madonna! 

But had you seen him — [ Gism. sighs again. 

heard him, — as I saw, 

And heard him, you yourself, in love and pity, 

Had promis’d too. 

Gism. I had not needed then, 

Had T so seen and heard him. Thou dost jest, 

Or thou art impudent, with thy love and pity. 

Giul. All for your sake, Madonna. 

Gism. For mine too, 

Thou promis’dst he should see me? 

Giul. No, for both. 

Gism. How now! Or Messer Aloise Foscaro 
Has with my maid forgot himself and me, 

Or thou ’rt beside thyself. What has he done, 

Or said, to make thee so presumptuous ? Has 
He given thee aught? 

Giul. He offer’d me a ring. 

I would not take it. 

Gism. He has promis’d then- 

Giul. Only a husband. 

Gism. Thou art malapert! 

And when I am so vex’d, too! Get thee hence. 

Giul. No, let me stay, Madonna. Why be vex’d 
That I am merry, when I am but so 
Only because I thought to make you happy, 

And make him happy, who deserves to be? 

Will you not hear me? 





180 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Gism. Speak then, as thou should’st. 
Speak plainly, in few words. What didst thou promise 
Giul. Nothing, Madonna: only that I would 
Try to persuade you to admit him here, 

To-night. 

Gism. Here, in my chamber? Didst thou dare 
To so disgrace me ? Get thee to him back, 

And say, thou hast mista’en me. Go at once! 

Giul. O madam! do but hear me! do not be 

So wroth with my well-meaning! I will beg, 

If so it must be, on my knees for pardon, 

If I have done you wrong. But only hear me ! 

What was there so amiss in what I said ? 

Here was the Doge’s nephew so distress’d 
It would have mov’d Mark’s lion, or my master, 
Praying an humble girl like me to have 
Compassion on him? 

Gism. Was he so distress’d? 

Ghd. In sooth, Madonna, how could he be else, 

So loving you, and of so great a heart? [Gism. sighs. 
Just in the moment when he should be bless’d 
In seeing you, to be bidden not to come. 

Another man had mov’d me, so perplex’d; 

But he so noble, such a god in mien ! 

Gism. [sighing again. 

Indeed, I was most sorry. ’T was with pain 
Unto myself. But what was to be done? 

Didst not thou, dear Giulietta, tell him all? 

How sullen was my father? 



ACT II. SC. 3. 


181 


Giul. All. I said, 

lie was a crab, a crocodile — St. Teddy’s 10 
Old crocodile on the pillar. 

Gism. Thou shouldst not 
Have us’d such phrases. 

Giul. Could I pick my words? 

I was so vex’d. And there was Messer Foscaro, 
Begging, with his sweet voice, as if he were 
An orphan whose last parent had been drown’d 
In the Canal by order of the Ten, 

That I would have some little pity on him, 

And let him in by stealth : it was so long 
Since he had heard you speak, except to say, 
Good-morrow, or Good-even. [Gism. turns her head 

away abruptly. 
O Madonna, 

It makes me weep to only tell his words; 

As it does you, I think, to hear them told. 

Gism. [in a soft and broken voice. 

Ho matter, dear Giulietta: say some more. 

Giul. I bade him to be patient, as you said, 

But as he was beside himself with grief, 

And fear of something wrong, and talk’d of care, 

And murdering sleep, and other horrid things, 

I thought to soothe him by a gentle hint, 

Perhaps you would — now don’t be wroth, Madonna! 
See him awhile by night, since I should be 
Along with you the while, and you might talk 
In the balcony, in the open air. 



182 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Gism. ’T was very wrong. [ faintly. 

Giul. I did but hint, Madonna. 

I promis’d nought; I said that I would try. 

I will go back, and tell him not to come. 

Gism. No, be not hasty. Seem’d he much distress’d ? 
Giul. Ask your own heart, Madonna ; as he said, 

I must my own to tell me what he felt; 

Which was quite handsome in him. For your sake, 
He said, I must persuade you, as for his. 

Gism. Did he? [sharply. 

Giul. I ask’d him how he knew you suffer’d. 

He said — so proudly ! with such passion too! 

It really made my heart go pit-a-pat: 

“By my own feeling. If she do not long, 

And in her longing suffer, as I do; 

If she would not give up a week of life 

For one hour’s talk with me, as I would gladly, 

O a whole twelvemonth, for an hour with her; 

Then will I beg no more: she is unworthy 
Of love like mine !” 

Gism. I am not! not unworthy! 

Giul. And so I said ; and in those very words ! 

Now, dear Madonna, do consent! How can you 
At once so feel, and not feel ? 

Gism. Give me time. 

Gismonda turning away , 

and standing pensive, her hack to the windoio atid her head 
down , Giulibtta seizes the opportunity , 
and, taking the rihhon 



ACT II. SC. 3. 


183 


from her bosom, trips to the window , 
pushes open the casement , goes on the balcony , 
and is seen to fasten the ribbon to the balustrade. As she 
■is about to close the casement again, 

Gtsmostda turns. 

Gism. What mak’st thou out at the window, Giulietta ? 
Giul. To see if Messer Foscari were there. 

Gism. And was he ? [ eagerly. 

Giul. Yes. 

Gism. Let me see too. 

Giul. Now nay, 

[intercepting her. 

He is no longer; and the Ca Yeniero 
Has windows too. 

Gism. Which thou hadst quite forgot. 
What led thee to suppose he would be there ? 

Giul. I promis’d I would give him sign of hope. 

Gism. And didst thou ? 

Giul. O be not severe, Madonna ! 

Hope is a blessing. 

Gism. When it leads astray ? 

Giul. But now it will not lead astray, Madonna. 

I know it will not. Shall I on my knees, 

And pray you to be just ? or shall I weep, 

And tell again his suffering ? O Madonna ! 

It is so small a thing! 

Gism. For thee, not me. 

Giul. But shall I not be with you all the while ? 

And have you not been married ? What he asks, 



184 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


What maiden would refuse ? I do not think 
That Monna Lisa would. 

Gism. Stop now ; no more. 

I will bethink me. Said he then, to-night ? 

Giul. At the fourth hour to-night. Think — ’t is his 
words — 

Think of his torments ; think of yours ; he has 
So much to ask you; you, so much to tell ; 

Have pity then on both. I know you will. 

Gism. [going. 

Thou know’st too much then. I will go consider. 
Giul. ’T is to resolve. Else hardly would you give 
Seven days of life for one hour’s talk with him. 

Gism. Ilush, hush ! Thou know’st not. 

Giul. But I know that lie 
Would give a twelvemonth for an hour with you. 
Gism. Hush! [Exit. 

Giul. Here’s a work to meet one cavalier ! 

St. Moses! 17 I would meet one every night! 

Goes to the balcony , and returns with 
the ribbon. 

Had she but seen my garter! —Never mind! 

Why not as well a knee-band as an armlet 
To noose a husband? If I catch one too, 

( And I have earn’d him; it has been hard work! ) 

I ’ll strip the other off, and make the set 
A votive offering to St. Giul'ietA [Exit. 



0 




ACT III. SC. 1. 


185 


Act tiie Third 

Scene I. The Garden — as in Act /., Sc. I. 

Enter on the upper side 
Lftia and Giovanna. 

The latter comes over the hedge , then helps 
Lutia to follow. 

Lut. Thou ’rt sure she said her master was abroad ? 
Giov. Madonna, yes. ’T is Holy Vito’s day. 19 
He is at the church. 

Lut. So are we wholly free. 

Enter 

Isotta and Cassandra. 

And here they come. How shall we see. 

Isot. {embracing her. j See what? 
Lut. This “loveliest plot that ever was devis'd.” 

Isot. And’t is. Had Baimont Tiepolo’s been as fair, 

My ducal ancestor had been put down, 

' And I perhaps been not put forth, to achieve 
A marital reform. 

Lut. It is the day 

That plot was thwarted. Omen of ill luck. 


183 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Isot. To our lords, not us. — Now hear. To-night- 

Lut. To-night ? 

Isot. At the fourth hour- 

Lut. That’s midnight. 

Isot. Even so. 

— We see each other’s chambers for the first, 

But not I hope the last time. 

Lut. What means that ? 

Isot. It means, our lovers meet us there to-night, 

And we our husbands. Seest thou ? 

Lut. Not a ray! 

Isot. Then miglit’st thou carry, for all the good they do, 
Thine eyes in a platter, like thy patron-saint. 

Cass. That, save the platter, were as well for both, 
Seeing both the gentlemen woo you in the dark. 

Isot. Now what behold’st thou ? 

Lut. Twilight, not full day. 

Isot. Thou art but half-awake! ’T would serve thee right, 
To let thee grope, as good Anselmo will, 

When he seeks Monna Lutia in the night, 

And finds lie is saddled with Isotta still. 

Now seest thou well ? or art thou still abed ? 

Lut. I see the plan. 

Isot. And tliink’st of it ? 

Lut. With dread. 

’T will ruin us both. 

Isot. Thou hast the drollest head I 
Here are Giovanna and Cassandra both. 

They know all, and take part in all. Our truth 





ACT III. SC. 1. 


187 




Has their assurance. 

Lut. Will that stay the wrath 
Of either cavalier, when found the cheat 
We have put upon him ? Think too of their hate 
Envenom’d by the consciousness of wrong 
Design’d against each other! 

Isot. That I leave 

To Providence, believing in my soul 

Shame will extinguish wrath. But for their rage 

Against our innocent selves, why let it burn! 

A double storm of feminine reproach 
Will blow it out, I think, and cool their brains 
For just conviction. — But I do not mean 
They soon shall find the cheat. Hot till at least 
Our double game is won. Look at our make : 

We are enough alike. Then, bred together, 

Our voices have one tone. We shall not speak 
More than is needful. 

Lut. I shall not, I am sure. 
G-irolamo will think it very odd 
In gay Isotta. 

Isot. Ho, he ’ll deem her coy 
Or prudent. Fearing no deceit, be sure 
Their amorous fancies will delude them both. 

But whether or not, we have ridden too far, my dear. 
How to draw bridle: win we not the race, 

We are ruin’d beyond redemption. 

Lut. ’T is too true. 

Our lovers are grown importunate, and believe 



] 88 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Each that his neighbor has a shameless wife. 
hot. So let them; till we make them blush to own 
They are bad husbands, we the best of wives. 
And this my plan. Cassandra on my part 
Shall tell Girolamo, that my lord to-night 
Takes barque for Padua, and invite him come 
At the fourth hour. From thee Giovanna bears 

A letter to Anselmo- 

Lut. Why a letter 

From me ? 

Isot. Because he wrote one unto thee. 

’T will suit his gravity better. 

Lut. Well. To say?— 
hot. Girolamo at Murano with some friends 

Will pass the entire night; and that between 
The third and fourth hour he may venture in. 
Lut. But why thus earlier ? 

Isot. Out, thou silly thing ! 
Not that I want my spouse a half hour more; 
But to prevent the two encountering. Well: 

At the third hour, or even before, we enter 
Each other’s house, here by the garden-gate, 
And by each other’s maid are led straightway 
Each to the other’s chamber, there inspect 
All that belongs to it, and when’t is known 

Put out the lights, and so await- 

Lut. In terror. 

hot. Fie, timid one ! Are they not given to know 
We meet in the dark, and neither is to speak ? 






ACT III. SC. 1. 


189 


Lut. But will it not be best to send my letter 
By some hired messenger ? 

Isot. That, as thou lik’st. — 
Now haste, my Lutia. {embracing her. Then , 
laughingly.\ But restrain thy muse ; 

Be not too fond! Anselmo might expect 
Too much of cold Isotta. 

Lut. And vet find 

V 

More than Girolamo will in Lutia warm. 

Cass. Pardon me, ladies, if I dare suggest: 

Madonna Isotta should compose this letter. 

Isot. As knowing her husband’s solemn humor best. 
Cass. No, as new proof. 

Isot. — Than one, two heads are better. 
’T is well. I ’ll throw it o’er the hedge. Thou, sweet, 
Shall copy it and send it. 

Lut. And so fetter 

These Husband-Lovers with a chain complete 
Of evidence. My heart not now will flutter. 

Isot. Hey then for frolic and our Double cheat! 

[hissing Lut., — who, with Giov., Exit over 
the hedge , while Isot. and Cass. Exeunt 
on their side. 



190 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene II. 

As in Scene III., Act II. 

Enter 

Gismonda and Giulietta, 

the latter hearing a lighted wax-candle and a coil 
of slender cord. She Mows out the light; 
and Gismonda opens the casement. 

Gism. The crescent moon gives just sufficient light. 

More would betray us. Look down into the street. 
Seest thou aught yet? 

Giul. Madonna, nothing yet. 

’T is black as pitch. 

Gism. The alley is so narrow, 

And we are up so high. It will be hard, 

I fear, to climb, [anxiously. 

Giul. Fear not: a lover’s legs- 

Hark ! I hear something. 

Gism. Speak more softly then : 

’T may be some other. 

Giul. How fearfully you tremble ! 
Courage, Madonna ! — Hark now ! There goes St. 
Mark! 

One — two — three — four ! 

ds the sound of the last strolce dies away , something light is 
thrown against the casement. 

Gism. [eagerly, hut in an under tone. 



ACT III. SC. 2. 


191 


And there’s the signal-stone ! 

Quick, Giulietta! 

Gismonda lets doicn the cord , while Giulietta holds it. 

Giul. See you yet, Madonna ? 

Gism. Yes, though but dimly. —Now, he shakes the cord ! 
Draw up. 

They pull on the cord together. The head of the ladder 
becomes visible. They secure it to the balustrade. 

Giul. ’T is fasten’d now. ’T is quite secure. 
Gism. lie pulls upon’t to try.— He’s on it now ! — 

He mounts ! —He ’s half- way up! —He ’s-Aloise! 

[icith deep tenderness , and stretching out 
her arms over the balustrade. 

Alo. \within—as just under the balcony. 

Gismonda! 

Immediately , the ladder appears to be jerked violently ; and 
there is an ill-defined dull noise. 

Gism. 0 God ! lie has fallen ! he is dead ! 

Giul. Hush, hush! 30 

Look, dear Madonna! he moves! he is but hurt. 

He holds both hands to his head. Your eyes now us’d 
To peer in the darkness, you may see him plain. 

He is going off! — O why so still, Madonna? 

You frighten me. Do speak to me ! 

Gism. \who , the whole time Giul. has been speak¬ 
ing in a suppressed voice , has been lean¬ 
ing over the balustrade , now looking 
up , and in a tone of relief \ yet low. 

Thank God! 




192 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


He is gone ! he was able to get home. Why, why 
Gave I consent to this ! If it should kill him ! 

My God ! my God! have pity on his youth ! 

Giul. Why fear the worst, Madonna? Was he able 
To move alone, he is not nigh to death. 

Gism. Thou knowest him not, Giulietta. ’T was in longing 
To reach, wo ’s me! my outstretch’d arms, he fell. 

I saw him — dost thou hear me ? 

\grasping Giulietta's arm, and drawing closer 
to her , while her whole body seems to shrink 
together with horror and grief. 

— clutch three times 

At the accursed ropes, ere — ere, sheer down- 

Giul. Oh horror! — Dear my lady, how thou tremblest! 
Gism. Tremble, girl! —Ere he fell, I say, sheer down, 

To the stone pavement. Would the stones have feeling 
For his green youth and manly beauty ? [gasping.] Thou 
Saw’st him, as I did, holding his poor head 
Press’d ’twixt his hands. Ivnow’st thou what that 
was for ? 

Pausing , then solemnly and deeply. 

That his blood might not drip upon the marble 
Beneath his lady’s window, and defame her. 

Had he but five minutes left of life and strength, 

He had dragg’d himself away, to die elsewhere. 

She buries her face in her hands 
and sobs — though lore. 

After a brief moment, during ichich Giulietta is seen , 
by the dim light of the scene, to gaze on her 




ACT III. SC. 3. 


193 


with looks of deep sympathy. 

Let not his noble effort for my honor 
Be thwarted. Draw the ladder np. 

Giul. Yet hope, [begins 
to draw the ladder into the chamber. 
Gism. Hope? Ay, hut pray. Until thou bring’st, to¬ 
morrow, 

Assurance of his safety, shall no pillow 

Receive my head, while his — while Aloise’s- 

Covers her face again , weeping silently ; and 
Scene closes. 


Scene III. 

A Street. The houses of Anselm o and 
Girolamo, adjoining each other. 

The portal in the basement of one of them is partially open. 

Enter , 

dragging himself painfully along , 

Aloise. 


Alo. I can no further. Here as well to die 
Vol. IV.—9 





194 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


As farther off—tliy honor sav’d — Gismonda. 

[ Sicoons between the two door? 

Enter 

A Captain of the Signors of the Eight 
with twelve Shirri , and their Lieutenant : three 
of the men hearing torches. 

Capt. What have we here? — Ho, lights! 

[They hold the torches over Aloise 
Lieut. The Procurator 

Marco Foscari’s son! 

Capt. The Doge’s nephew! 

Lieut. Bleeding 

And — dead, I think. 

Capt. Who can have done this deed 
Go, three of you, and hear him to the Church. 

[pointing off the scent 

Two of the Sbirri take up Aloise, and, 
another leading with a torch , 

Exeunt. 

Whose houses are these, Lieutenant ? 

Lieut. The Messeri 

Bembo and Barbadico’s. Neither door — 

See, Captain, there! [pushing one back, and openin 
the other.] is fasten’d. 

Capt. That is strange! 



ACT III. SC. 3. 


195 


And Messer Foscaro bleeding on the ground ! — 
Divide yourselves. Watch two of you this side, 

Two upon that, [indicating the doors. 

Two others go around 

To the back wall. And thou, patrol the street. — 

Let nothing out or in.— Arrest thou [to the patrol. 

any one 

Found lurking. — If ye [to the front watch. 

hear him sound for help, 

One from each side go to him.— Take one torch, 
Lieutenant, and search that house. I, with the other, 
"Will enter this. Quick, fellows, to your posts! 

The icatch disperse as distributed. 

As the Captain, followed by one of the torchbearcrs , 
enters one of the doors , and the Lieutenant, similarly 

attended , the other , the 

Scene closes. 



196 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene IV. 

The Garden — Ms in Act /., Sc. Ac. 

The Stage is nearly dark. 

Enter 

on the upper side of the hedge , Isotta, — 
on the lower , Ltjtia ; 
both hurriedly. 

Isot. [suppressed tone , out eagerly. 

Lutia, is’t thou ? 

Lut. Isotta, yes. 

7 v 

hot. Make haste. 

Give me thy hand. Here. Over. 

[They cross the hedge , changing places. 

Lut. What’s the matter? 
What noise was that in the house? 

hot. The Devil perhaps. 
Did it also come to thine — to mine, that is? 

Lut. Tramp, tramp, on the stair. The door was sud¬ 
denly open’d. 

An arm, I think Cassandra’s, drew me out. 

I saw the light of torches, as I fled, 

Flash through the court. I think we are beset. 
hot. And so do I. Our husbands will be caught. 

O 


ACT III. SC. 4. 


197 


What will they say, when found each in the chamber 
Of his sworn foe ? 

Lut. And knowing it, as they will! 

’T will drive them mad. 

Isot. I cannot help hut laugh. 

Lut. I had rather cry. But now is time for neither. 

See! Lights in both houses! [ looking to the right. 

Isot. [turning to left.'] And footsteps in the rear ! 
Good night, good night. The Devil, if devil it be, 
May catch thy husband, but he sha’n’t catch me. 

[Exeunt hurriedly 
at their respective sides of the hedge. 


The Drop falls. 



198 THE DOUBLE DECEIT 

Act the Fourth 

Scene I. A Cell in the Prisons. 

A sound of bolts and chains withdrawn. 

The vaulted door is flung open, and , the Jailer standing by it , 

Enter 

Anselmo and Girolamo 

led by the Captain and the Lieutenant of the Watch , 
and followed by six of the Sbirri , 
two of them icith torches. 

Ansel. [ haughtily. 

Now we are where thon ’(1st have us, it mav be 
Thou ’It answer us at last, why are we here. 

Girol. Come, Captain, this is surely some mistake. 

That gentleman, I will vouch, is, as he told thee, 

Messer Anselmo Barbadioo ; he 

Will say for me, that I am nothing less 

Nor worse than I have claim’d to be. Come, come; 

We are no night-thieves. 

Capt. I might, Messeri both, 

Reply, by simply asking you in turn, 

Why you, who, all the world of Venice knows, 

Are enemies, are found each one by night 
In the chamber of the other, and confus’d — 



ACT IV. SC. 1. 


10G 


I will not say, in terror, — nor could give 
Any account of yourselves why you were there? 

This might suffice for Messer Barhadico, 

Who I see winces at it. 

Ansel. Hold thy peace; 

And know thy place. 

Capt. [still gravely .] I know it well enough, 

And what the law allows your rank. 

Ansel. Then, peace! 

Why we were found where thou hast said, concerns 
Ourselves alone. Ourselves alone will answer it, 
Each to the other, [loolcing significantly at Girol. 

What is that to thee ? 

Capt. [turning to Girol. without f urther notice of Anselmo. 
But since you have better feeling, Messer Bembo, 
And know the difference ’twixt a dog and me, [said 
with the same imperturbable gravity. 
I will answer you , why I have brought you here. 

The Doge’s nephew, Aloise Foscaro, 

This night was found bath’d in his blood and dead, 

On the foundation just before your doors. 

Both start — Anselmo less perceptibly. 

You both betray surprise. It may be real, 

It may be feign’d. That will appear elsewhere. 
Seeing hotli your doors were open, I had right 
To think, perchance involv’d in some amour, 

Young Foscaro met his deatliwound at the hands 
Of some one in your houses. What we found 



200 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


On entering, I will not offend again, 

Messer Girolamo, by repeating here. 

Girol. But sir, I do protest- 

Capt. I must be pardon’d, 

If I refuse your Excellence to bold 
Further discourse. My duty here is done. 

Ansel. And thou shalt answer for it. 

Capt. And I will. 

I go now to the Signor of the Night 
To make report. Until the Quarantia 
Otherwise order, I shall leave you both 
Together and without a special guard. — 

[bowing gravely. 

To the right about; in file; and forward, march! 

The Sbirri defile from the cell , 
one of the torches leading ; and during this movement 


Scene shifts to 




ACT IV. SC. 2. 


201 


Scene II. 

The Interior of a Church. 

Aloise lying on a Her before the Chancel. 

A small torch at the head , and another at the foot of the bier, 
give the only light to the scene. 

The Chaplain 

is seen in the act of closing one of the church-doors, 
lie comes forward. 

Chapl. How they are gone, I’ll get me to my bed— 

’T will yet be warm — and mend my broken sleep. 

Giesu! ’t is not a trifle to be rous’d 

Out of one’s dreams at midnight, dreaming too, 

Mary forgive us ! one of Jerom’s dreams, 

To enter a cold church. Ugh! Why not let 
The dead inter their dead ? as Christ’s self said. 
Midnight? Those torches haply will not burn 
Till morning. Should the relatives come in, 

And find them out!- 

Tahes two larger torches which are standing 
by one of the pillars, and substitutes them . As he is lighting 
the one at the head by the one 
he has thence removed: 

How, Messer Aloise, 

I know not if thou wilt see better now- 

9 * 





202 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Griesu Maria! St. Fantin! [ dropping the small link 
in terror.'] Did he move ? [looking on 

the face. 

Oh horror ! and all saints! his eyelids open! 

Runs off toward the door , then stops , and , coming 

slowly hack. 

This is child’s terror: if he be alive, 

Better for him perhaps, and well for me. 

If he be dead, I have seen dead men before, 

And bloody ones. [Lays his hand on Aloises chest. 

God’s holy Cross! he lives! 

[Exit hastily. 

While he is gone , Aloise gives certain feeble signs of coming to. 

After a few moments , 

Enter 

the Chaplain, 

with another Priest and a Lay-brother. 

Alo. [without raising his head , and feebly. 

Gismonda!- [Again lapses into insensibility. 

Chapl. There! I thought I heard him speak. 
Priest. ’T was but thy fancy, brother; and I wish 
Thou hadst kept it to thyself: my bed was ready. 
Chapl. But here is what will quite 21 thee, were it warm. 
As mine was. Beats his heart, or not? 

Priest. It beats! 

Let us be quick. Giuseppe, [to Lay-brother. 

raise the feet. — 




ACT IV. SC. 3. 


203 


He has swoon’d from loss of blood. 

Ghapl. Or pain. So. 

[carrying him off. 

Bear him 

Unto my cell. I am glad my bed is warm. 

[Exeunt with Aloise. 


Scene III. 

The Prison —- As in Scene I. of the Act. 

\ 

The scene is lighted by a lantern on an oaken table. 

Anselmo. Girolamo. 

Girolamo is seated on a bench near the table , kicking his 
heels together , and looking up note and then with an air 
of drollery at Anselmo, who , with folded arms and head 
depressed , paces gloomily , at moments fiercely , the cell. 

Ansel, [suddenly stogyping , a?id, after looking fixedly for a 
moment or two on Girolamo. 

Messer Girolamo Beinbo-- 







204 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Girol. [carelessly .] Well? 

Ansel. Our sires 

Were as our grandsires, and tlieir sires far back, 
Great enemies. I am thinking that they were — 


[ pauses. 


Girol. Great fools, perhaps. 

Ansel. Even so. And since you think- 

What were you doing, Messere, in my chamber ? 

Girol. What were you doing in mine ? It is all one. 
Ansel. My lady is a-Hum! [clenching his hand fierce¬ 

ly, and resuming his walk. 
Girol. And so is mine, [kicking 
his heels together—but not carelessly ; then spring¬ 
ing passionately up and coming forward. 
Ansel. You seem to take it easily. 

Girol. Take the devil! 

How can I help it ? Any more than this, 

That we are thrust together in one cell, 

Who hate each ot,her? Shall we fight it out? 

We have no arms. But there are solid walls, 

And here our hands: Your head or mine. What say 
you? 

Ansel. Either you trifle, or you yet not know 
Why I now speak who never once before 
Open’d my lips to you, and never thought 
I ever should. How look you on our fate ? 

Girol. As a most damn’d one, take it at the best. 

Ansel. And take it at the worst, as we must do, 

’T is this. To-morrow all of Venice knows 






ACT IY. SC. 3. 


205 


"Wo both are- Need I breathe the accursed name? 

Girol. No, ’t is not very amiable. 22 What then ? 

How can I help it ? 

Ansel. But what makes it worse, 

All Venice knows we are enemies; and, so knowing, 
What will it think of what must seem in each 
Covert design to wound the other’s honor ? 

We shall become the laughingstock — 

Girol. [beginning to show uneasiness.] And scorn — 
Ansel. The detestation, and the mere contempt 
Of every Pantaloon. 23 

Girol. [somewhat 'passionately. 

Ay. But again 
I say, How can I help it ? 

He begins to stride across the stage in the manner Anselmo 

had first done. 

Anselmo watches him a moment in 
the dim light , standing with folded arms. Then , 
slowly , and with depth of tone. 

Ansel. Help it? Thus. 

We are taken up suspected of the murder 
Of Aloise Foscaro. Let us own it. 

Girol. [stopping short. 

Art thou in earnest ? 

Ansel. Earnest ? Am I one 
Was ever known to utter words in jest ? 

Girol. No, by St. Jerom! Monna Lutia took 
Your sober earnest seriously to heart. 

Ansel. That is an ill-tim’d pleasantry, Messere. 




206 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Girol. It cost me dear then. It was devilish bitter, 

Like John’s book, in my belly. 24 Thou may’st cap it 
With one on me and Isotta, if thou like. 

Ansel. [with clenched hand , and stamping the floor. 

Damn her! 

Girol . Ay, damn them both, loose jades! 

Ansel. Amen ! 

From the bottom of my soul! But were they damn’d 
Effectually by our wish, that saves us not 
From the deep hell of infamy wherein 
Their known incontinence plunges, for all time, 

The body of our honor: for all time! 

A moral stench and fire to which the gulf 
Of Dante’s horridest Circle were mild Eden. 

Think’st thou not so ? 

Girol. [with much feeling.'] 

Peace! name it not, Anselmo. 

Ansel, [at first shrinking. 

Anselmo ? — [brief hesitation. 

But’t is well. For thou art hearty; 

And I believe our grandsires were great fools. 
Girolamo Bembo, — ’t is thy enemy speaks, 

Thy enemy that was, but who will be 
Truly thy friend a few brief hours of life, 

If so thou wilt, — thou wouldst not live to bear 
The slur of obloquy, the pitying shrug, 

The mocking smile, the whisper and the joke: 

“ That’s he! Lucretia-Lutia’s merry keeper.” 
“Messer Girolamo, how’s thy enemy’s rib?” 



ACT IV. SC. 3. 


207 


Girol. [who has been patting the floor with his foot , his Ups 
sternly compressed. 

Anselmo Barbadico- 

Ansel, [purposely disregarding him. 

-Wouldst not bear 

To know thou own’dst a wife who-- 

more quickly.~] Wouldst thou bear 
To be so damn’d, and daily ? 

Girol. Would I live 

To lose the all for which life’s worth the living; 
Decent opinion and a happy heart ? 

Better a thousand deaths! 

Ansel. It is but one. 

I ’ll share it with thee. Touch my hand. 

Girol. [at first shrinking as Ansel, had done — 
then , with great frankness and putting 
his whole hand into Anselmo' 1 s. 

I will. 

This morning I had clasp’d the Devil’s as soon. 

Ansel. We meant to wrong each other, and, so meaning, 
Did wrong each other. Let us now each other 
Bight, and that nobly. One thing is resolv’d : 

Young Foscari died by our joint hands, detected 
In infamous commerce with our strumpet wives. 

The how and when, and wherefore we were found — 
Where we were found, —that must we now revolve ; 
That not the horrors of the Question force 
One word from our parch’d throats, to give the lie 
To each other’s story. 






208 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Girol. Let them wrench our limbs: 
Our heart’s pang has a bloodier sweat. — But hark : 
Is ’t right to blacken Foscaro, that ourselves 
May he made whiter ? 

Ansel. Wherefore not ? He sleeps : 
He will .not hear it; and he fell, no doubt, 

By some avenger’s hand; while our damn’d wives 
Get but their due. 

Girol. Ay, damn them! Venice too, 

That breeds such vermin ! 

Ansel. Bather damn ourselves, 
Who fancied each his footing solid ground, 

While grinning at his neighbor’s floor of glass. 25 

They walk up to the table , and Girolamo appears to arrange 
the lantern on it so that they may sit on either 
side ; and Scene closes. 



ACT IV. SC. 4. 


209 


Scene IV. 

The Sleeping-Chamber of the Chaplain. 

• 

Aloise lying bade in an easy chair; two Surgeons on either 
side him , one holding his wrist. Ilis head is bandaged. 

He is deadly pale , and his eyes are closed. 

M. Domenico Maripetro, Signor of the Night. — 

The Chaplain. — His fellow Priest. — The Lay-brother. 

All but the Lay-brother 

come forward , leaving Aloise a little in the background. 

ls£ Sur. You now may question him, Messer Maripetro. 

2 d Sur. [who had held Aloise's wrist. 

So it be gently, and at no great length. 

Marip. I understand you truly then, Messeri, 

These wounds are come of accident, — from a fall, 
Mot from premeditated violence ? 

1st Sur. Mo. 

Even without the bruises and abrasions 
Which mark the patient’s body and his palms, 

We should not deem him wounded by assault. — 

2 d Sur. Although.it is not impossible. 

1st Sur. Although — 

As thinks my learned brother — presupposing 
Certain conditions of weapon and attack, 

It yet might be. But doubt is put at rest. 


210 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


By the distinguish’d patient’s own avowal. 

[turning to the Chapl. 

Chapl. ’T is so. His Excellence has avow’d he fell 
From a balcony of the Casa Mora. 

Marip. Seem’d he to have his senses when he spoke ? 
Chapl. It might be; and again, it might be not. 

’T was waking from his swoon. The avowal made, 
He gave a cry of pain and swoon’d again. 

1 st Sur. With pardon of his Reverence be it said, 

The cry was more of terror or despair, 

As though in the flutter of returning sense 
He had utter’d what was perilous to reveal. 26 
Chapl. ’Tis very likely: I am growing old. 

Messer Aloise! —[going up to Alo. 

Marip. Hush! — [goes up also. The rest 

follow. 

Messere, [to Alo. — Aloise 
opens his eyes , and again closes them. 
You fell, you have said, from Messer Moro’s w'indow. 
Alo. [leaning forward. 

I did. — O fatal slip ! [to himself. — He strikes 
his hands together , and falls hack, and groans. 
ls£ Sur. [to Marip.] There! Said I right ? 27 
Marip. [waving his hand to impose silence. 

Kuoav you me, Messer Aloise Foscari? 

I am one of the Signori of the Night, 

Domenico Maripetro. Two young nobles 
Were seiz’d on mere suspicion of your murder, 

And are detain’d to answer for the attempt. 



ACT IY. SC. 4. 


211 


Will you absolve them? Whence had you these wounds? 
Aloise turns uneasily in the chair. 

A pause. 

What took you to the Casa Mora windows, 

Since it must be you were in secret there ? 

Another pause. 

Alo. [heavily sighing. 

Let not the innocent suffer. I must die, 

And will not keep this secret on my breast 
Which is half utter’d. Ser Giovanni Moro, 

Whose wealth is known, keeps constantly in his house 
Large sums of money, and has hoarded jewels 
Of vast amount, whose storing-place I knew. 

A pause. The attendants, &c., 
gaze on him with intense interest. lie keeps his eyes 

still closed. 

Observing that the windows in the rear, 

Which light the corridors, were night and day 
In the warm season open, I resolv’d 
This night to scale them. 

Again a pause — the company 

gazing on him with an expression of increasing interest , which 
now partakes of alarm and even horror. 

At the fourth hour then, 
With a mask’d lantern arm’d and certain keys 
Whose master wards would open every lock, 

I threw a rope-ladder to the mid balcony 
Of the mid floor, where stood a casement open, 

And mounted. [lie pauses. 



212 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Chapl. O ye saints, and San Fantino! 

O horror, and Jesus-Mary ! And a noble ! 

The other Priest and the Lay-brother 
cross themselves. The Surgeons exchange looks 
of dismay , 1st Surgeon's mingled with an expression 
of doubt. Maripetro keeps his eyes on Aloise, giving no 
other sign of emotion than the knitting of his brows. 

He leaves, however , his hand again , to impose 
silence on the Chaplain. 

Alo. The claws were not well grappled to the rails : 

My weight drew down the ladder; and I fell. 
Wounded and bleeding, half-wild with fear and shame, 
I had the strength to sink in the Canal 
My implements, and staggering sought my home. 

But overcome with pain and loss of blood, 

I soon lay down to die. I know no more. 

Chapl. The Doge’s nephew robbing! Holy Cross! 

Maripetro, gazing a moment fixedly on 
Aloise (who keeps always his eyes shut), turns round and 
looks upon the bystanders. 1st Surgeon betrays 
strong incredulity. 

Marip. ’T is a strange story, Messer Aloise ; 

And be it not disprov’d’t will cost you dear. 

Bobbery has of late been fearful-rife, 

And the strong hand of law must put it down. 

Your uncle will not shield you. 

Alo. Let him not. 



ACT IV. SC. 4. 


213 


I can but die, and shall perhaps even here. 

Chapl. The Lord vouchsafe your Excellence better thoughts! 
As this is said , 1st Surgeon draws 
Maripetko forward. 
ls£ Sur. I think his senses wander. 

Mar ip. Yet the tale 

Was congruous and coherent. And his wounds? 

1st Sur. I have never doubted came from some such fall. 

I doubt his motives. 

Marip. These the law will search. 

[Returning to Alo. 

My painful duty, Messer Aloise, 

Must be discharg’d. — 

Alo. Discharge it. I complain not. 
Marip. Your father sent for will be shortly here. 
Meantime I leave you with a single guard, 

Who shall await without, [going. 

Alo . Receive my thanks. 

Enter , Marco Fosoari. 

Marip. The Procurator is already come. 

Alo. Father! [painfully. 

Fosc. My son ! IIow is it with thee now? 

Alo. Poorly in mind and body. I have made [ faintly. 
Confession of my guilt. 

Fosc. Thy guilt! He raves! 

Speak, Maripetro! 

Marip. ’T is indeed too true. 

Your Excellency’s son admits to have fallen 



214 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


In an attempt — I am sorry so to speak — 

To rob the Casa Mora. 

Fosc. He is mad! [gazing anxiously 
on Alo. who keeps his eyes closed. 
1st Sur. For the moment — partially. He should have rest. 
Bewilderment of the cerebral functions 
Has follow’d the concussion, as did syncope 
The blood’s congestion. 

Fosc. [motioning to the company to go. 
Give me leave, good friends. 
Thou dost not fear to leave me, Maripetro, 

Alone with Aloise ? 

Makipetko hoics. 

and Exit with the others hy a door. 

Aloise! 

Art in thy senses ? 

Alo. Never more so, father. 

Fosc. What hast thou done then? Whence and how this 
fall? 

What took thee to Giovanni Moro’s house ? 

Alo. Attempting to ascend a high balcony; 

With what intention, spare me to repeat. 

Fosc. Degenerate boy ! Art thou so lost to shame? 

Open thine eyes, and look me in the face. 

Thou cast’st them down! Is’t guilt ? This is some 
cheat! 

The tenor of thy past life shows it so. 

Thou hast been noble, generous, from a child, 
Oblivious of thyself for others’ good, 



ACT IV. SC. 4. 


215 


Incapable of avarice: thou art Foscaro. 

The tears are gushing from thy clos’d eyes fast! 

My own begin to trickle. O my son ! 

What is thy trouble? Fear not! Come; confess. 
Thou didst not fall; thou wast hurl’d down perhaps 
From some high window, caught in some amour. 
Make me thy friend : I will not judge thee harshly. 
Alo. \much moved 

My father!- 

Fosc. [caressingly. 

Yes, yes; that is it. 

Alo. [despairingly. 
No, no! 

It is in vain. Let justice have its course. 

Ask me no more. 

Fosc. Let justice have its course ? 

Art thou a villain then ? And wilt thou hang? 

Alo. No, I shall die before the cord be ready. 

Fosc. But, dying so, thou wilt not save our shame. 

Thou art the Doge’s nephew, and my son. 

Thou art no villain. Either thou art mad, 

With thy wounds’ fever, or there lies here hid 
Some mystery, perhaps of love-intrigue, 

Which I shall know to fathom. Rest in peace. 

I go to the Ducal Palace straight. 

[Exit l>y the dour. 

Alo. Gismonda! 

I have stripp’d my honor bare, to cover thine. 

[ Swoons. 




216 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Enter, from the door , 

Maripetro, Chaplain, and Surgeons. 

The Priest and Lay-brother 
behind. 

Ohapl. [as he crosses the sill. 

O horror! and St. Job! he is gone again ! 

Sur. It has been too much for him. 

2 d Sur. As I foresaw. 

The Surgeons and Chaplain hastily , Maripetro 
slowly , move towards Aloise. The 
Priest and Lay-brother press 
through the door. 

And during this movement the 


Drop falls. 



ACT V. SC. 1. 


217 


A O T THE F I F T II 

Scene I. In the Ducal Palace. The Ilall of the 

Council of Ten. 

Lokedano, Mocenigo 
and others of the Council assembled. 

The Doge presiding. 

Doge. Illustrious Signors! Now the affairs of state 

Which call’d you hither are over, ere we part 

Give me your sufferance. If we call your hearing 

From the deep thunder of the Milan war 

To meaner trouble and scarce audible sound 

Whose near reverberations startle rarely 

The far-removed sphere of your high functions, 

/ 

It is not idly. In the affair we indicate 
There is a mystery, and a double plot 
Darkly imvoven, and so close-perplex’d, 

As needs to unravel it your graver judgment 
And your supreme authority to resolve, —- 
The honor of three noble houses being 
Therein involv’d. Vouchsafe us then your patience. 
Have we your high permission to proceed. 

The Council exchange loolcs of inquiry, then 
gravely nod assent. 

’T is known in Venice, Aloise Foscaro, 

Vol. IV.- 10 


218 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Many weeks since, was taken up for dead 
Between the open portals of two houses; 

Girolamo Bembo’s being one, the other 
Anselmo Barbadico’s. Search being made, 

These nobles — foes, observe! were found in the dark 
Each in the other’s house, at dead of night. 

Charg’d with the seeming murder, each apart 
Avow’d for himself, seeing Aloise pass 
At certain hours often by their doors, 

And knowing their wives were faithless, they had lain 
That night in wait for him, unknown to each other, 
And, rushing out together, between them slain him. 
Hearing then the tramp and seeing from afar 
The torches of the night-guard, scar’d, bewilder’d, 
Having chang’d their places in the assault, they fled 
Each through the other’s portal unawares, — 

Their houses being similar. That the wounded 
Died not, makes not their story false. But lo! 

Being question’d, Aloise avers he fell 
From a balcony of the Casa Mora, 

Attempting— who will credit such a tale ? 

To rob the house ! 

Loredano. Why not? What’s in a Foscaro, 
Should save him from the crimes of vulgar men ? 

Doge. Nothing: but much to keep him from their mean¬ 
ness. 

Loved. What’s that ? the Ducal Bonnet ? 

Doge. No; but that 
Which we might say a Loredano wants 



ACT Y. SC. 1. 


219 


Since the brave Admiral, Pietro of that name, 

Stoops to offend the feelings of an uncle 
To gratify the malice of his hate. 

Mocenigo. [ hastily. 

What said they to this strange avowal ? 

Doge, [bowing to Mocen. and then around the Council. 

Pardon : 

The trodden worm will turn ; I cannot kiss 
My enemy’s heel. — They affirm’d it was delusion ; 
Delirium from the fever of his wounds. — 

By order of the Criminal Quarantia, 

Search being made in the Canal from Moro’s 
To Barbadico’s house, was nothing found, 

Though Aloise said therein he threw 
A ladder, keys, and lantern. He avers 
Still to have fallen ; still the two maintain 
Their story of assault. 

Mocen. With what design ? 

Doge. To find in death a refuge from dishonor. 

Disgusted with their wives, and sick of life, 

Made friends by common suffering, they plann’d, 

In their deep passion and shame, what now for shame 
They scruple to retract. 

Mocen. And Aloise? 

Doge. Doubtless did fall; but from what house and how, 
Lies yet in darkness. 

Lored. Give them to the rack. 

All three will render up their secrets straight. 

Their folly or guilt needs not this high tribunal 



220 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


To sift or punish it. 

Doge. ’T is because the rack 
Threatens now needlessly their youthful limbs, 

We crave in their behalf the Council’s favor — 

To us, not them* Our Procurator brother 
Has found a clue to Aloise’s part, 

In certain feeble hints Giovanni Mono, 
Close-question’d, gave him. Grant us ample power 
To search this matter, we pledge our faith to make it 
Clear as noon-day, the issue leaving wholly 
To your high verdict. [ he speaks still to the rest of the 
Council , without regarding Loredano. 
Lored. As is simply fit. 

The Doge would seek immunity for his nephew 
And brother’s son. 

Doge. The Doge before the Ten 
Knows not his brother nor his brother’s son. 
Francesco Foscari is servant of the State. 

When was he ever known to scant his duty ? 

When to refuse a sacrifice of self? 

Hot only his nephew, does the law demand him, 

But his own children; he surrenders all; 

Even dead will ye have it so. 

Lored. [muttered .] It yet may be. 2 * 

Mocen. I see no power that may not well be granted 
Unto his Highness in this strange affair. 

Why should the noble Admiral refuse 
To do his enemy justice ? 

Lored. I refuse not. 



ACT Y. SC. 2. 


221 


Is it the pleasure of the rest, ’t is mine. 

Mocen. Is it agreed then ? [ looking round upon the Council. 

All the members nod affirmativehj except 
Lored ., who remains motionless. 

It is granted, [to the Doge. 
Doge. [bowing acknowledgment .] Thanks. — 
Associates, the Council stands adjourn’d. 

Council, rising , prepare to separate as 

Scene closes. 


Scene II. 

A room in the house of A nselmo. 
Isotta. Lutia. 

I Ait. Is there to he no end to this suspense ? 
Isot. Why soon, I think. Now Aloise Foscari 
Is well enough to stand before a court, 

The trial must come on. 


Lut. And then ? 




222 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Isot. Why then, 

What hut our lords’ release ? Has Foscaro been 
Too noble to avow the rightful source 
Of his disaster — which I think was hardly 
Our friend Gisraonda’s jewels, —will he seek 
For safety in our husbands’ wild invention ? 

Its falsehood obvious, they are free. 

Lut. To vent 

The vengeance of their prisonment on us. 

Isot. We soon will turn the tables on them. What! 

Did they not bring it on themselves? ’T is little 
Indeed atonement for their sins ! And we ? 

Have we gone scathless ? Hot the humblest soul 
Of all our husbands’ lineage, scarce a friend 
Or relative of our own, to touch our hands 
Or hold communion with us! Both set down, 

In a vile city, as the vilest vile! 

Enter, 

Cassandra, precipitately , 
with looTcs of dismay. 

What now ? What is it, girl ? 

Cass. O God! Madonna! 

Isot. Why dost thou wring thy hands ? What hast thou 
heard ? 

What seen ? 

Cass. Seen nothing — not as yet. But see 
The town will soon. — O dear! O dear! my master! 



ACT V. SC. 2. 


223 







Isot. What of him ? Speak! 

Lut. And of my lord ? 

Cass. They are both 
Condemn’d to lose their heads between the pillars. — 
Isot. [jocosely, and sustaining Lutia , who appears dumb 
with horror . 

Don’t faint, my Lntia! 

Cass, [looking on Isotta with surprise. 

Eeally though, Madonna!- 

Isot. I do not doubt it. They ’re to lose their heads; 
And?- 

Cass. Messer Aloise to be hung. 

Isot. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Cass. But it is true. 

Lut. Isotta!- 

Isot. How, don’t give way! Here comes Giovanna too. 

Enter , 

with like discomposure , 

Giovaxna. 

We will hear her first. Well! didst thou see them die ? 
Giov. [in extremity of surprise. 

Madama! 

Lut. Mind her not, Giovanna ! Speak! 

What is this horrid story ? 

Giov. ’T is too true. 

I had it from the porter. And I came 
Straightway to tell you. And I found the men 






224 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


In the court below were talking of it too. 
hot. \malcing a gesture to restrain Lutia , who tool's wildly 
from Giov. to Isot. 

Talking of what?— Now, Lutia, do be still! 

Giov. ’T is talk’d all over Venice — so they say. 

Madonna Lutia’s, and your lord, Madonna, 

Will be beheaded in the Piazzetta, 

And the Duke’s nephew hung. 

hot. Right wisely done ! 
Ilail Francis Foscaro, the new Solomon ! 

Lut. God keep us sane ! This horror drives her wild ! 
hot. No, joy. — Thou hast heard how Solomon the Jew, 
To find the mother, where two claim’d a child, 
Order’d the little bantling cut in two. 

So Solomon the Venetian, to discover 
The entangled secret of our Double Deceit , 

Proposes to behead each Husband-Lover, 

And hang his nephew in the public street. 

Nay, never stare! ’T is so, and wisely done. 

Hail Francis Foscaro, the new Solomon ! 

Lut. Do leave thy rhymes, Isotta; and disclose 
Thy meaning plainly. 

Lsot. Plainly, in plain prose : 

Come with me to Gismonda. 

Lut. With what view ? 

Hop’st thou she would admit us now ? 

Lsot. I do. 

Cassandra shall prepare the way. 

Lut. Her sire 



ACT V. SC. 2. 


225 


t 


Will shut the door in our faces. 

Isot. lie sha’n’t see them. 
We will go mask’d. How, not a word, my dear! 

’T is time for action now, not speech. Go bid 
The gondola be prepar’d, Cassandra. 

Lut. No. 

’T is but a step. We had better walk. 

Isot. The barge 

Will screen us better while we wait without. 

[Exit Cass. 

Come to my closet. I have masks for both. 

They move towards a door. 

I hardly think, my dear, the Doge will care 
To chop two heads off ’twixt the two stone pillars, 
Because they wish’d to choose ’twixt two down 
pillows. 

Lut. No; Venice would have nought but bodies then. 
Isot. Save a few heads — of children and old men. 

Lut. O monstrous libel! Would no women keep 
Their heads then on their shoulders ? 

Isot. Some — asleep. 

Lut. What then do we awake in this Lot’s town ? 

Isot. O, we are friends, and spare each other’s down. 

[Opens the door , and in the act 
Scene changes. 


10* 



226 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene III. 

In the house of Giovanni Moro , 

Ms in Act II,‘ Sc. III. 

Moro. Gismonda. 

Moro. I will have nought to do with it, I say. 

Thou hast disobey’d me; and, by thy connivance, 
Young Foscari would have forc’d his way by night 
Into my house — I do believe, Gismonda, 

From thy own nobleness, not to thy dishonor — 
Gismonda raises his hand 
to her lips. Moro draws it away with 
affected roughness. 

Mow, none of that! unless it be in token 
Of penitence for the past. I say, Gismonda. 

If Aloise did not enter here, 

It was by his misfortune, not thy fault; 

And though thou ’scap’st the forfeit, he shall not; 
Mot by my movement. 

Gism. And his self-denial ? 

Father, thou call’dst it noble. Canst thou wish 
To punish him through the very merit which won 
But now thy favor ? 

Moro. I punish not. I own, 

The youth is brave, is noble, is magnanimous, 


ACT Y. SC. 3. 


227 


* 


Is worthy of his name: but is’t my fault 
He lost his balance ? I would have pitch’d him down, 
Had I been near him. Let him pay the cost 
Of his mad passions, as all men must do 
Sometime or other. 

Gism. It is done, my father. 

Frightful atonement! He has barely ’scap’d 
Alas! with life. 

Moro. So let his broken bones 
Teach him a lesson. I will not intercede 
With his stern uncle. I have done enough, 

Avowing to his father that he knew thee. 

Hang him or not, I wash my hands of all. 

Gism. Yet, for my sake, for mine! dear father, pity! 
Moro. Thou art a fool — or feign’st to be. Thou knowest, 
As well as I do, Foscari will not hang. 

He has risk’d his neck to save thy honor; and thou, 

I doubt it not, wilt risk thy honor in turn 
To save his neck. But if thou do, remember, 

I have no part in it! And- What is this ? 

Enter Gittlietta. 

Giul. May it please Madonna, a girl without craves leave 
Of speech with her. 

Moro. Admit her : I have done. 

[Exit Ghd. 

How bear in mind, Gismonda! I ’ll not stir 
A hand to save him, let him hang or not. 

[Exit Moro — in opposite direction. 




228 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Re-enter Giulietta with Cassandra. 

Gismonda, on seeing the latter , turns indignantly on 

Giulietta. 

Cass. Madonna, pardon me : you have no cause 

To look displeas’d. I have indeed been sent- 

Gism. [gravely. 

What does thy mistress want with me, Cassandra ? 
Cass. It is a matter that concerns you both. 

Gismonda draws herself up, 
hut with more displeasure than disdain. 

May, you do wrong her, Madam. On my word, 

She is innocent, and as virtuous as yourself. 

Gism. Girl!—■ Come, [to Giul., and moving off. 

Cass. Do hear me! Do be j ust! 

Giul. Do hear! 

Appearances, Madonna, may deceive. 

Cass, [significantly. 

Madonna Mora’s self might be misjudg’d. 

Gism. Ah! say’st thou ? Well; be brief. 

Cass. Then brieflv, thus : 
My master and Madonna Bembo’s lord 
Made love to each other’s spouse. The ladies told 
Immediately each the other, and contriv’d 
To assume each other’s place. 

Gism. Ah! truly ? 

Cass. Madam, 

I and Madonna Lutia’s maid, Giovanna, 

Were cognizant of all and help’d in all. 




ACT Y. SC. 3. 


4 


229 


Gism. Could I believe thee ! 

Cass. That needs not. My lady 
Brings her own proof. 

Gism. What mean’st thou ? 

Cass. They are come, 
She and Madonna Lutia, to concert 
Measures with you to rescue all the three, 

Their husbands and the nephew of the Doge. 

Will you not see them ? 

Giul. [Gismonda hesitating. 

See them, dear my lady : 

The Devil is not so black as he is drawn. 

Cass. They are no devils at all. 

Giul. That’s true; being come 
Upon an errand of mercy. 

Gism. Thou distract’st me : 

Peace! — [A pause. Considering. 

To Cass. ] I will see them. — 

Go thou with Cassandra. 
[Exit Giul. and Cass. 
Gismonda walks thoughtfully to and fro 
a few moments. 

’T is very true. Myself might be misjudg’d. 

I have but Giulletta to maintain 

My plea of honor. Why should I distrust 

Isotta, still more Lutia? If the world 

Traduce them for their husbands’ fault, may’t not, 

When I relate for Aloise’s sake 

My story of the rendezvous, believe 



230 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Me too impure ? The trial 'will come hard. 
But thou didst venture all, thou gallant spirit! 
Why should not I ? Albeit the risk for me 
Is more than death. 


Enter 

Isotta and Lutia, 

wearing masks, which they immediately remove, 
Cassandra, Giulietta, and Giovanna. 

These three retire to the background, and, during the colloquy 
between their mistresses , Giulietta, in dumb-show, 
appears by her gesticulations (pointing to 
the window, e£c.) to be recounting 
the misfortune of Aloise. 

Isot. Salute us not, Gismonda. 

Spare us a welcome that must needs be cold. 

Lut. And yet it should not. Why shouldstthou accept. 
Who knowest us, all a lying world puts forth ? 

Gism. Your husbands did. [ Gism. speaks , though gravely 
and with sufficient firmness, yet with diffidence. 

Isot. Our husbands were deceiv’d. 
Has not Cassandra told thee ? 

Gism. [same manner.\ But in brief. 

’T was a strange tale. She said thou hadst the proofs. 
Isot. Which we shall lay before the Duke himself. 

Thou she - St. Thomas! thou slialt put thy fingers 
Upon the very marks. 

Lut. O dear Gismonda! 

What better proof than that our coming brings ? 



ACT Y. SC. 3. 


231 


Were we so guilty, wouldst thou see us here ? 

Look in our faces. 

Isot. It is aptly urg’d. 

But I may claim to add: What, did we say 

Young Foscaro- 

Gism. No, no! do not say it! no! 
Forgive me! We will not distrust each other; not 
On the world’s showing only. [Gives a hand to each. 

Isot. Now then, hear 

Why we are come. What think’st thou means the 
Doge ? 

It were preposterous, tyranny unmatch’d, 

To put to death, even on their own confession, 

Two men of standing, for a night-assault, 

When the pretended victim swears himself 

’T was never made. The Doge then would discover. 

Why this self-accusation ; why two foes 

Were found at midnight each in the other’s chamber; 

Why his own nephew, hitherto unstain’d, 

Takes on himself a crime not less degrading 
Than heinous. In a word, the Doge, my dear, 

Would bring us out, sagaciously divining 
W T e three could solve this mystery if we would. 

The Doge must have his will. 

Gism. But how, Isotta ? 

Isot. We must appeal to him — appear before him, 

If he desire. There is no other way, 

Especially for thee. But tell us frankly: 

Thou art the jewel young Foscari came to rob ? 




32 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Fie ! never blush ; the world must know it soon. 
Gism. My father had forbidden him the house. 
hot. Ah ?— But the why concerns not us. — Thy sire 
Knows then of all, and knowing can explain. 

Gism. But that he will not do: he swears it roundly. 

His stubborn humor — if I must call it so — 

Thou knowest. 

Lut. But hast thou not some friend, Gismonda, 
Will speak for thee, and us ? our cause being one. 

For this we are come. For we are stripp’d of friends 
By our misfortune. 

Isot. Nor will stoop to plead 
Through any advocate for that mere justice 
That should be meted us on our own asking, 

And the bare statement of the naked facts. 

Gism. So it becomes you best.— [ Considering.'] I know 
of one. 

There is Stef'ano Moceni'go, of the Ten. 
hot. Who better? ’T is the Doge’s single friend 
In a malignant and opposing Council. 

Let us prepare a letter to the Prince, 

Requesting in the names of all the three 
An instant hearing. This, dispatch’d forthwith, 

The Minister will bear him. Let us haste. 

The College sits to-day: there is bare time 
To find the Doge alone. 

Lut. And not an hour, 

For the three prisoners’ sake and for our own, 

To throw away : the town is in a ferment. 



ACT Y. SC. 3. 


233 


Gism. Come to my oratory then ; for here 

My father might break in and interrupt us. 

Isot. And catch without our masks us, wicked pair, 

And wonder how the devil we got here. 

Gismonda leads them to the door of a cabinet , 
which opening, she shows them in. 

Cass. Be not concern’d, fair ladies: if’t will do, 

I and Giovanna here will mask for you. 

[Exit Lutia. 

Isot. [looking bach. 

Thou ’dst better it, thou jade! — Here wait ye two 
Our coming back. And keep your faces bare. 

[Exit, folloioed by 

Gismonda, icho, in character, has looked 
rather surprised ; and door closes. 

Giul. — For Master’s eyes. 

To Cass.'] Charm’d with that modest air, 
He ’ll think it better pastime here to sue, 

Than join the ladies yonder at their prayer. 

Giueietta and Cassandra put on the masks 
and begin to caricature the airs -of fine ladies to the 
amusement of G ioyanna; and 


Scene closes. 



234 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Scene IV. 

The Piazzetta. 

The same concourse as in Act L, Sc. II.; hut the groups are 
earnestly conversing and gesticulating, and a lenot 
of people stands in apparent expectation 
about the portal of the Palace. 

In the foreground, an Old "Woman coming down the stage, 
and a Gondolier going up from the left. 

Enter, 

from the right, Isotta and Lutia, 
attended hy Cassandra and Giovanna. 

Old Worn, [observing them. 

Hoot, the bold hussies! 

Gondol. [facing about at the cry. 

Give them a wide berth; 
They ’ve got men’s blood on them. 

Old Worn. Or soon will have. 
Isot. [ firmly, yet in an under tone. 

Fear them not, Lutia; we shall soon be through. — 
Keep close to us, girls. 

Enter 

the two Surgeons. 

1st Sur. [to Gondol.'] What is this all about? 
Gondol. [crying out to Isot., &c. 

Tale care of the columns / 29 Ye have brought already 


ACT Y. SC. 4. 


235 


Two gallant men betwixt them, ye foul jades! 

2 d Sur. [to ls£ Sur. 

’T is the two wives of the condemn’d young nobles, 
Bembo and Barbadico. One I know. 

Gondol. [who lias turned about to the Surgeons , after the 
above obloquy. 

Then you’ve a bad acquaintance. 

Old Worn, [hobbling after Isot., 
&c., and gesticulating.\ Stone the jades! 
Gondol. [ioho has given attention to this cry , now half- 
turning again to the Surgeons. 

I wish I had them bound upon a plank 
Welbcharg’d 'with stones, between two gondolas! 
Would n’t the boats part quickly! 30 

Old Worn, [still 'pursuing. 

Stone the jades! 

[And the crowd in the background 
take up the cry : “ Stone them ! ” 
The ladies a,re seen to cower. 

Gondol. [running up. 

I ’ll see the muss. 

1st Sur. [seriously to 2d Sur. 

They are in great danger. 

Enter a body c/Sbieei 
with Captain. 

Capt. Halt! — 

Back, ye mad fools! Disperse, ye hags! — Left wheel! 
Forward! 


I 



236 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


The Archers march up the stage, and, the mob 
sullenly retiring, the ladies, Ac., continue on their 
icay to the Ducal Palace, ichich jjresently (in the course of 

the Scene ) they enter . 

1st Sur. [in tone of relief. 

In time! 

Gondol. The Devil take the Sbirri! 

They ’re always in the way, those fellows! — Who’s 
this? 


Enter from the left 
Gismonda and Giovanni Mono 
and Giulietta. 

They pass slowly up the stage towards the Palace (which they 
enter before the close of the Scene.) 

Directly after them, also from the left, 
the Chaplain. 

Chapl. [to Gondol. 

Hush, my brave Barcarole! that’s Messer Moro. 
And the young lady, my brave Barcarole, 

Is Messer Moro’s daughter, Monna Mora. 

They are going before the Doge. — 

Gondol. 0 yes, I know, 

To inform against his brigand, cut-throat nephew. 

She’s a brave lady! lie’s a villain! 

1st Sur. What for ? 

Gondol. What for, my citizen? If seven big murders 
For a young fellow, like Aloise Foscaro, 

Be not enough to make a villain!- 




ACT Y. SC. 4. 


237 


Chapl. Seven! 

O horror! and St. Moses! Why, my son, 

He ne’er committed one ! 

Gondol. So much thou knowest, 
Good Father! I say, seven. 

Old Worn. Nay, ’t was eight! 

Did n’t he stick Madonna Mora’s maid? 

Gondol . St. Peter! no! I ’ll tell ye about that. 

He got up by a ladder with a torch,— 

Meaning to fire the house, to rob it safely. 

But, by good luck, Madonna Mora’s maid,— 

That’s she behind her — a right buxom lass !- 

Old Worn. She walks like a crab. 

Gondol. Thou ’rt crabb’d thyself, old wench : 
A soft crab! 

Old Worn. Am I! thou salt-water hog! 

I ’ll let thee feel my claws! 

Gondol. Keep off, old mermaid ! 

I ’ll put my oar to thy flippers, an’ thou don’t. — 
Well, by good luck, Messeri, as I said, 

The maid lay with a toothache wide-awake, 

And, seeing the light, awoke her sleeping lady. 

They stole to the balcony. Then the maid 
Dashing the blazing pine in’s face, the lady 
Tripp’d-up the ladder. Wa’n’t it bravely done? 

And so we shall see this Princes-nephew hung. 

Come on, old crab! Three cheers for Monna Mora! 
Goes up the stage , 

Old Woman hobbling after him threateningly. 




238 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


1st Sur. And, Down with the Prince’s nephew! if he durst. 
Chapl. Giesu! was ever! — But I ’m growing old ! 

Seven murders! 

ls£ Sur. “Nay, ’t was eight.” For, “ didn’t he stick 
Madonna Mora’s maid?” 

2 d Sur. With lighted torch. 

Chapl. Ah! popular rumor! popular rumor, sons! 
ls£ Sur. Is a soft-shell crab, of our Gondolier’s description. 
It climbs too high sometimes our mansion-walls: 

Then ebbs the tide, and the oozy crawler’s left 
Out of his element. — For the Palace, Father? 
Chapl. Ay, gentle son. Perhaps I may be needed 
Before the College, in Foscari’s behalf. 

I heard him mutter some things much like love 
And Monna Mora’s name in his fever once. 

But I am growing old now. 

ls£ Sur. So are we. 

2 d Sur. And bound for the Palace too, with similar views. 
Chapl. Come then, my sons. St. Fantin, and all saints! 

’T were a great shame, to hang a Doge’s nephew. 
ls£ Sur. Slight fear of that, good Chaplain. ’T is a sham : 

A plummet let down in the well of Truth. 

Chapl. Think’st thou ? ’T is likely. But I’m getting old. 
St. Christopher! they must not hang him yet, 

If we can help it. Come away, fair sons. 

They move up the stage , and 
Scene closes. 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


239 


Scene V., and the last. 

In the Ducal Palace. The Hall of the College. 

On the right, in his robes of state, and crowned with the 
Ducal Como, the Doge on his throne between his Six 
Counselors of the College, — having before him Lore- 
dano, Mocenigo, and others of the Council of Ten. 
In the background, the Criminal Quaranti'a, and others 
of the College. In front of them , standing, the Avvo- 
gadore Morosini. — In the centre of the stage, somewhat 
back, stands Aloise, with two Sbirri behind him leaning 
on their pikes, Marco Foscaro on his right hand, and 
Maripetro, a little behind him, on his left. — More for¬ 
ward, and somewhat to the left of Aloise, Bembo and 
Barbadico, with four Sbirri and the Captain of the 
Night. Hear the left wing, far down in the foreground, 
the Chaplain and the two Surgeons ( who enter however 
during the Doge’s speech ). 

Doge. By your advice, most learn’d and noble Counselors, 
The other members of this potent College 
Giving consent — our brothers of the Ten 
Therein conjoin’d, by whose illustrious sanction 
This strange affair ( which from its private nature, 
Affecting individuals not the State, 

Concerns a portion rather of your body, 

The Criminal Forty, than the exalted whole) 31 


240 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Was given to us to manage at our will 
For the great ends of justice and the good 
Of the aggriev’d concern’d, —by your joint order 
And liberal sufferance, shall we now proceed 
To loose the tangles of this intricate plot, 

For whose unravelment all Venice waits 
Impatiently. The prisoners stand before you. 

Two parties, who profess to hold the key 
To unlock this mystery, attend without. 

Is it your pleasure they be summon’d in 
And questioned ? 

The Doge looks around the assembly , 
which gravely bowing, 
he motions with his hand , and 

Enter 

Isotta and Lutia, attended by Cassandra and Giovanna ; 
then, after a brief interval, Gismonda, 
leaning on Moro’s arm, and followed by Giulietta. 

As Isotta passes before Anselmo, she throws at him a side¬ 
long look of malicious pleasure, which Anselmo returns 
with one of concentrated indignation. Girolamo glances 
with a half-impatient half-careless look at Lutia, who 
however keeps down her head. He then exchanges looks 
with Anselmo, who clenches passionately his hand, — 
iciithout however lifting it. 

Ye, who answer for the Ser 
Anselmo Barbadico and the Ser 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


241 


Girolamo Bembo, stand befor our throne. 

The other dame be seated. 

Gismonda, after mutely endeavoring to per¬ 
suade Moro to remain by her (pressing his hand, 
in both of hers, Ac.), takes a seat which is offered , 
first exchanging a timid and anxious look with 
Aloise, who appears deeply moved. Giulietta 
stands up behind her chair. Moro has retired 
close to the left wing of the scene , before Gis- 
monda sits, and stands near the Chaplain and 
Surgeons. 

Now, fair ladies, 

Why challenge ye our hearing? And what plea 
Put forward, that the sentence of our will 
And the Ten’s mandate should not be enforc’d ? 

Isot. Illustrious Prince! And ye, exalted Signors! 

’T were hard, even in a presence less august, 

To speak of matters, which to merely intimate 
Throws doubt upon our virtue: but the safety 
Of our lov’d husbands, and our own dear honor, 
Therewith involv’d, allow of no reserve. 

I know not by what influence, certainly not 
Through her enticement, who was ever grave 
And decorous in her carriage, my staid lord 
Made love to Monna Lutia, while to me 
Her gayer mate paid, almost at one time, 

A similar compliment. How this should chance 
I cannot say. Perhaps being learn’d, they had read, 

Like pairs with like, and birds will flock together 
You. IV.—11 



242 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Who find a semblance in each other’s feather. 

The assembly smile , while Anselmo 

I 

( on whom Isotta glances maliciously) and Girolamo mutter 
together and exchange looks of rage and shame. 

Lutia and I from childhood have been friends, 
Having had one foster-mother. From the love 
We bore our husbands — how reciprocated, 

Your Highness has just heard,— we never pass’d. 
After our marriage, through each other’s door, 
Contented o’er a hedge, which parts in two 
The garden of our homes, from time to time 
To hold communion. Thus it was, one day, 

We told each other of our Christian lords, 

Who, hating one another unto death, 

Kept all their charity for each other’s wives: 

Again the glance by Isotta ; and again Anselmo and 
Girolamo appear excited. 

And who had grown so curious to explore 
Their neighbor’s dwelling, that they could not wait 
Till Time should open them the common gate, 

But sought to creep in by a private door. 

This time Anselmo and Girolamo — 
especially the latter—are so far mastered by 
their passion , that the Captain of the Guard is obliged 
to restrain them. Mocenigo, observing the com¬ 
motion , exchanges glances with the Coun¬ 
cil , and then looks up to the Doge, 
who thereupon. 

Doge. The prisoners will have patience till their hour 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


24 


To give response. Else bear them to their cells. — 
Proceed, fair lady; nor restrain your wit. 
hot. To know them better, and to make them know 
Us better, and to punish each her spouse, 

We plotted to encourage them, and made 
Appointments, feigning unto each our lords 
Were gone from home; and ere the appointed hour 
Each by assistance of the other’s maid 
Stole to the other’s chamber, there awhile 
Study'd, and for a purpose, all it held, 

Then waited, in the dark as was agreed, 

Our husband-lovers. These had been prepar’d, 

For reasons obvious, not to hear us speak. 

Our ears however open, while we listen 
Each to the worship paid her rival friend, 

Sudden there is a tramp upon the stair, 

The door is open’d, the attending maid 
Warns us of danger, and, still in the dark, 

We flee through the garden and regain our homes. 
Here stand our maids, the witnesses of all, 

And aidant in the plot from first to last. — 

What follows need I tell? The Husband-Lovers, 
Detected ignominiously, assum’d 
The guilt of a murder which they knew not yet 
Had never been committed and had never 
Been even attempted, eager to escape 
Contempt and laughter in the unconscious grave. 

Thus ends our story. If I have been long, 
Weighing on solemn hours, already heavy 



244 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


With burdens of the State, I pray my Prince 
And all your Excellencies, for my sex’s weakness, 

To escape your censure. 

* Doge. Nay, receive our praise. 
Lady, you have well spoken. What have ye, 

Messeri, to respond. 

Ansel. But briefly this: 

The story is collusion. 

Isot. And our maids? 

Ansel. Are purchas’d. 

Isot. Whence this ring ? — Illustrious Prince, 
I took it from his finger, in the chamber. 

Ansel. ’T was Lutia took it; and thou hadst it thence. 
Isot. Here is the copy of the note thou hadst. 

I wrote it first for Lutia. 

Girol. ’T is a copy 
Perhaps taken after. 

Isot. Sav’st thou, Messer Bembo? 

My maid will find the woman, an’ thou list, 

Who took from her the copy, which she bore 
From Lutia to Anselmo. 

Ansel. That is nought. 

Who cannot buy such women, when thy maid 
Herself is purchas’d ? 

Doge. Messer Barbadico, 

Ourself can urge thee. Seest thou nothing, then, 

In the dark chamber and the silent lips ? 

Ansel. Pardon, my liege, —I see no proof therein 
Of more than simple shyness, or, be’t said 



ACT Y. SC. 5. 


2 


With greater aptness, merely simple shame. 

Girol. [who has been absorbed in thought — suddenly. 
But I, magnanimous Prince, begging pardon too 
Of all that hear me, plead now for our wives, 
Advancing this strong proof. When she I thought 
Was Monna Isotta heard me call her thus, 

She drew her hand away, and fell to weeping. 

Even then, before I well could think, the alarm 
Was given, and the dame escap’d. But now, 

I know ’t-was Lutia; and I ask forgiveness. 

Doge. She is weeping now; but not, I think, from grief. 
And thou, Anselmo, hast thou nought to say? 

A pause, Anselmo appearing to consider. 

Chapl. [low to Surgeons. 

St. Zachary! is he dumb before the Duke! 

Wait till I’m asked: I will not hold my tongue. 
Ansel. A light breaks on me too; and I avow, 

With penitence, great Duke, we both have sinn’d; 
Sinn’d in false censure, as in bad intent. 

I do remember now, that I was shock’d, 

When fancied Lutia slily laugh’d to hear 
My whisper’d vows. Isotta so had done. 

Isot. Yea verily, and did. And is that all 

Thy memory owns ? Thou hast forgot to speak 
Of one thing more. IIow when I fled away, 

I lent thee with my fingers on thy cheek 
A compliment which Lutia would not pay. 

Ansel. I own the debt, and that’t was well incurr’d. 
Doge. These noble ladies’ honor is now purg’d 



246 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Before all Venice. But not yet absolv’d 
Stand their two lords. Rise up, Madonna Mora, 

And what thou knowest deliver unreserv’d. 

Gismoxd.v rises with an effort , seems to 
struggle with herself, then sits down again—or rather 
sinks intff the chair. 

Chaff, [in under tone to ls£ Sur. 

St. Lazarus! poor thing, how scar’d she is ! 

I should be too. But I am getting old. 

Doge. Be not dishearten’d, noble and gentle lady! 

Giul. [low to Gism. 

For Messer Aloise’s sake. Madonna, 

He would have died for you. 

Gismonda, rising instantly , casts one loo~k 
on Aloise, then seeming to gather courage , speaks , 
with a voice which gradually strengthens in its tone of modest 
firmness , hut icith eyes cast down. 

Gism. It is most true : 

He would have died for me. — Illustrious Prince, 
Were it my honor, as it is but pride 
And womanly shame that are involv’d, —for him, 
Who ventur’d life and honor both for me, 

Should I not offer it? [Lifts her eyes with an expres¬ 
sion of deep gratitude to Alo ., then casts them 
down aga in. Brief pause. 

Aloise Foscari 

Lov’d me — and woo’d me. But his sire had chosen 
Another partner for him. For this cause, 



ACT Y. SC. 5. 


247 


And being of kindred to the Loredani, 

) My sire forbade me to receive his visits, 

Under the certain pain of being shut out 

From his heart alike and home. What could I do ? 

That very day, Aloise was to come. — 

Intercepted by my maid, not knowing why 
My father had forbid him, in despair 
He urg’d me through the girl to give him hearing 
In secret and by night. As ’t was to be 
In a balcony, and my maid beside, 

The eloquence of his passionate distress, 

Repeated by the girl, o’ercame all fear, 

And womanly shame, and prudence, and, oh me! 
All filial reverence. — At midnight then, 

A cord let down drew up to the balcony 
A ladder, which we fasten’d to the rail. — 

Young Foscaro ascended. [Her voice breaks. 

In his haste 

To reach — to reach my outstretch’d arms — he fell. 
Overcome. Brief pause. 

Ghapl. [low. 

Oh horror! and all saints! he was no robber. 

The Duke won’t need my evidence after all! 

Gism. [recovering — and with energy. 

My lord, he is the noblest of all men! 

Lest found beneath the window he should stain 
Her honor whom he lov’d, he dragg’d away 
His body, all broken and bleeding, from the door, 
To die elsewhere. 



248 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


Pause of brief agitation — looking 
tenderly and gratefully on Aloise. The 
assembly , with exception of Loredano, evince deep interest , 
and turn their eyes on Aloise, who c'asts 
dozen his ozen. 

We saw him, by the moonlight, 

Holding his head between his uprais’d hands. 

For fear his innocent blood should spot the stones 
And be for evidence. — Here is my maid, 

Who witness’d all. The ladder is at home, — 

To be produc’d, if this be not enough. 

The Doge bends toward the Counselors and the Tex. 
They appear to nod assent. 

Doge. It is enough. The prisoner is free. 

But did it rest with us, thou noble Gismonda, 

He should be bound again with other chains — 

Thy heart his prison. 

Morosini. Bests it then with me ? 

My daughter Lisa shall not marry now, 

My lord, your nephew. He has clomb too high. 

And fallen too low. 

Fosc. So be it. — Aloise, [zoith tender 

reproach. 

* * 

Couldst thou not trust me? — Take him, gentle lady: 
The gallant boy hast won thee like a hero; 

And thou, redeeming him, has shown the prize 
Was worth the conquest. 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


249 


Gism. [Alo. about to take her hand — 
looking round to Moro. 

But my father- 

Moro. [ approaching .] Nay, 

I have said, I have no other thought than honor 
For Aloise Foscaro; and since 
Ilis Procurator sire and Ducal uncle 
Sanction the union, I might give my blessing; 

But- [stops, looking full on Loredano. 

Lored. "What’s’t to me ? I stand not in thy way. 
Marry thy daughter, man, to whom thou wilt, 

Or let her marry herself in thy despite; 

That makes me not fourth cousin to the Foscari. 
Moro. But it may make thee less of kin to me. 

Come hither, children. I have stepp’d between you, 
Partly in honor, partly in that, a fool, 

I set more by old friendships than new loves. 

[Glancing at Loredano. 

I have taught me better now. God bless you both ! 
Foscaro may be, as thou didst say, Gismonda, 

One day the prop of my declining years. 

He puts their hands together. Gismonda 
raises his to her lips. 

Tush, tush ! keep all such dainties for thy spouse: 

He has better earn’d them. 

While this takes place, the Husband-Lovers 
and their wives have embraced. IsoTTAjfovsi extends her hand 
to Anselmo, which he lifts very gravely to kiss; 

11 * 





250 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


but she drawn it away , laughing lightly , and 
falls on his neck. 

Doge. All thus endetli well. 

And you, Messeri, [to Ansel, and Girol. 

we are joy’d to find 

Are no more foes. I would your noble example 
Might influence others [glancing at Loredano. 

to consider friendship 

More blest than enmity. 

Lored. [disdainfully.] For whom it suits. 

Isot. [low to Ansel., Ac. 

I thought it did for every one but brutes. 

Doge. Friends, Colleagues, I would thank you one and all 
To your kind sufferance wholly is it owing 
This matter is well ended. It is said, 

A shrewd mechanic, somewhere in the North, 

Has just devis’d a singular mode to copy 
All written labor: so that at one time 
A many hundred transcripts may be taken, 

In clean fair characters, of a single book. — 

A pause ; for the assembly exchange 
looks of pleased surprise , or appear to speak brief y togethc 
of the matter ; during which 

Chapl. [apart to Sur. 

G-iesu-Maria! it is the Devil’s invention ! 

!.<?£ Sur. [maliciously. 

They ’ll stamp the Bible. 

Chapl. And render all men wise 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


251 


1 8ur, The biggest pippin from the tree of knowledge 
Since Adam. 

Chapl. Had it from the sire of lies. 

1 st Sur. Ho, from the mother, —as I ’ye heard it told. 
Chapl. ’T is very likely. But I’m getting old. 

Doge. Nothing shall now be lost to future time. 

This curious story, with its double plot 
And startling mystery, should thus go down 
To entertain posterity like ns. 

Fosc. Perhaps it may. And in some far-off time 
Some bard may put the adventures into verse, 

And make a playhouse happy with the scene. 

Doge. Then let me tack a moral to the tale. 

To Isot. and Lut .] Deceits are always dangerous, nor 
good ends 

Can ever justify unworthy means. 

To Aloise.] To tell untruth to shield a woman’s fame 
May well be generous, as to venture life 
Is at all times heroic; but’t is never 
82 Either just or virtuous, and is rarely wise. 

The lips may close at will; but, when they open, 

See that they open only for the truth. 

Chapl. St. Paul! Our Doge is quite a sage, ’t is clear! 

Isot. \to Lut.] I told you he was Solomon, my dear. 

Doge. The College is adjourn’d. 

The whole assembly rise , and soon after them the Doge, 
and remain standing. 

The 'main characters , who have already grouped 



252 


THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


together , along with the Chaplain, &c., come now to the 
extreme front of the scene. 

Moro. And we, — to meet 
Together at my house. [ bowing, though with his rough 

and ungenial manner, to the group. 
Girol. To gossip over 

The short-liv’d madness of each Husband-Lovek. 

Isot. And happy issue of the Double Deceit. 

Gism. Come with us, Chaplain: you, Messeri, too. [to Sur. 
Fosc. [to Ghapl. 

To-morrow thou slialt have some work to do. 

Chapl. St. Fantin! ’t is to make one hand of two. 

Fosc. ’T will mgke at least two happy hearts I pray. 

Isot. And so a wedding meetly ends our play. 33 

The Characters draw back, and the 
Curtain begins to fall. 

Giul. [advancing, and putting up her hand, as if to stop it. 
Pardon; there should be two. I claim to see 
The brave young spouse your Excellence promis’d me. 

[to Aloise. 

Cass, [advancing to Girol. 

And I, your Excellence, my triple fee. 

Girol. It shall be paid, with interest. 

Alo. And some day 

My debt to thee, Giulietta. 

Giul. Be it now. 

’T is time I kept to Giuliet my vow. 

Her chaplet fades: ’t is long since first T wore 



ACT V. SC. 5. 


253 


The separate parts. 

Chapl. St. Jude! What can that he? 
Giul. A something, Father, which you ne’er before 
I think have seen, and something — to be bold — 
You never, in its parts, I think will see. 

Chapl. [ thoughtfully . 

’T is very likely, child; I’m getting old. 

Gism. Peace, Giulietta: thon art much too free. 
Moro. And let the curtain fall; our drama’s o’er. 84 


Curtain falls. 





























- 



























NOTES 


TO 

THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


1. —P. 139. The Double Deceit, &c.] The story is founded 
on the XVth Novel of Bandello. 

2. —P. 140. Aloise.] I very much fear that this name would 
be of but three syllables with an Italian, not merely because oi is 
one of Buommattei’s Tuscan diphthongs, but because the Latin form 
is Aloysius , in which the vowels would hardly be separated. In 
my incertitude, I must beg the favor of the reader to let the diph¬ 
thong, if it be such in this proper name, remain divided and thus 
softened (i sounded as e ) into two pure vowel sounds, and ascribe 
the diaeresis to a poetic license which is not unusual in other 
instances with even the Italians themselves. — In fact, it is little 
more than anglicizing the name, as is done with Bianca (in “Bianca 
Capello ”), which in Italian enunciation would have but two dis¬ 
tinct syllables, but with English writers is everywhere of three.* 


* I take this occasion to observe that perhaps an equal liberty has been 
taken with Luiia , where the accent is laid on the first syllable, although it is 




256 


NOTES TO 


3. —P.155. — Cassy /] Or, “Cassa!” which is more in costume, 

though not so much in character in the part, in English. 

4. —P. 163. 'Dvina —] Contraction of Cassandrina (i as e), the 
diminutive of familiarity or affection. For the Stage, as more dis¬ 
tinctly intelligible, “Wanton”, or, as above, “ Cassa”, or “Candra,” 
both of which are in costume and of the time, in the same way as 
is Monna, contracted from Madonna. 

5. —P. 164. I have not , etc.] Or, “I have not repented that I 
then gave way ” (—“that I gave thee way”); or, “I have not 
repented to have given thee way.” 

6. —P. 166. — tomef\ —“to thee?” if preferred. 

T.—P. 166. As lofty, etc.] Omit, for the Stage. 

8. —P. 166. Were it, etc.] Otherwise: 

“ Were it the Duke’s own son, I might relent, 

But being his brother Marco’s, I will not.” 

Or: 

“ Were it the Doge’s son, I might relent, 

But being the Procurator’s, I will not.” 

9. —P. 166. Thy ted is yet a widow's. Make thy choice. So he 
be not, etc.] Otherwise : 

“ Thy bed is yet a widow’s. Take thy choice. 

Out of a thousand noble youths, not many 
Would slight Gismonda Mora or her dower.” 


apparently but another form for Lucia , which, notwithstanding its Latin deri¬ 
vation, compels in Italian the stress of the voice to fall on i. That it is a 
matter of choice will be evident, from the fact that An'na, Ber'ta , Ghet'ta 
(contr. of Arrighetta, Henrietta), Le'lia , Liv'ia, Pau'la , and some others, 
would any of them suit the rhythm an* the verse. 




THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


257 


And in the text, for the last line, may be redd (but the variation is 
trivial): “Giovanni Moro will not say thee nay,” or “John Moro 
will not say his daughter nay.” 

10-—P. 167. If Procurator, etc.] Otherwise: 

“ If Aloise, Marco’s sod, comes in, 

Gismonda, Niccolo’s widow, shall go out.” 

Or, the three lines may read simply: 

“Do as beseems thee. But of this rest sure ; 

If Aloise enter, thou goest out.” 

11. —P. 168. GiuVietta!] The name is properly of three sylla¬ 
bles. The reader will please allow the diaeresis occasional^, to 
favor the verse, (although it is really an oversight). In the present 
instance, might be redd: “ What ho, Giulietta.” But that were too 
masculine for Gismonda. — See, in Note 2, the remark on Bianca. 

12. —P. 171. The women!s rooms are in the hinder part, Divided 

from the men's!] See Scamozzi. I!Idea dell' Architett. Univ. P. I. 
L. III. c. 6. p. 243. ( Venet. in fol. 1615.) Established in Venice, 

where or in whose environs his chief works were executed, the 
famous architect took pleasure in comparing, in his elaborate work, 
this domestic arrangement with that of the ancient Greeks. 

13. —P. 173. — balconies — ] Throughout the piece, I have, 

against my will, adopted for the word balcony the accentuation of 
Walker; which is that used by Byron, and by the older poets. I 
have done this, because I do not know but that it still obtains in 
England, and therefore is the received accentuation of the Stage. 
Yet in this country, I have never heard it (except from the lips of 
a South-American Spaniard) pronounced otherwise than bal cony , 
which is the pronunciation that must eventually prevail, oven on 



250 


NOTES TO 


the Stage, because balco'ny is contrary to the genius of our language 
and therefore difficult of enunciation when in connection witli 
purely English words.— January 23, 1856. 

14. —P. 113. — Gd —] Familiar Venetian contraction for Casa , 
indicating the mansion or palace of families of distinction. Casa 
Veniero is merely the mansion of the Venieri family, which for the 
sake of costume, that is of better localizing the scene and adding to 
'ts semblance of verity, is feigned to be in the immediate neighbor¬ 
hood of the “ Casa Mora.” Cd Ziani — Gd Priuli — Cd Micheli are 
all varieties of reading in the MS. 

15. — P. 113. — when Si. Mark tolls four —] The reader will 

allow me to remind him hero of the peculiarity in the notation of 
Italian time, which is counted, for the twenty-four hours, from 
sunset to sunset. “About the fourth. ’T will then be midnight,” 
as above, places of course the scene in midsummer, like the men¬ 
tion of San Vito’s day in the beginning of the next Act. 

16.— P. 181. St. Teddy’s—] Or, “St. Theodore’s.” The pillar 
is one of the famous two (See scene-description, Act. I., Sc. 2) which 
have the ominous Intercolonnio alluded to in Act V, Sc. 4; where 
See Note 29. 

11.— P. 184. St. Moses f] The Venetians canonize Moses , Job , 
and other sanctities of the Old Testament, and have churches 
erected to them, while the theatres in the neighborhood take their 
names from the churches ; so that there is, or was, a Theatre of St. 
Moses , of St. Samuel, etc., as well as of St. Luke. See Wright’s 
Observations in Travelling , &c., 2d ed. (Lond. 1164, in 4to.) pp. 61, 84. 

18.—P. 184. Pll strip the other off, etc.] Otherwise, to avoid 
the double accentuation in “ St. Giu'liet" ”, which is but a metrical 
license (though only too common a one in English): 



THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


259 


“ I ’ll strip its fellow off, and make the pair 
A chaplet for my patron-saint to wear.” 


And above: 


-“ Never mind; 

As well a leg-band as another kind, 

To noose [snare — ensnare] a husband.” 


19.—P. 185. —’T is Holy Vito’s day.] When a solemn pro¬ 

cession, which, included the Doge himself, was always made to the 
Church of the Saint, in acknowledgment of the defeat of Bajamonto 
Tiepolo’s conspiracy, which occurred on that day (June 15, 1310), 
or on the previous night. See Harin' Sanuto. Vit. Due. Venet. ap. 
Murator. Rer. Hal. Script. XXII. (Medial. 1733, in fol.) col. 585, G. — 
It was on the occasion of this conspiracy that the formidable 
Council of the Ten was instituted, ib. 586.— The anniversary was 
still observed in Edw. Wright’s day (four hundred years after¬ 
ward). Obs. &c., as above, p. 58. 


20.—P. 191. Gismonda! Gism. 0 God! he has fallen! he is 
dead! Giul. Hush, hush /] This verse is not redundant. The a 
of “Gismonda”, being unaccented, slides easily into the succeeding 
unemphatic 0, without combining with it, a not ungraceful and a 
convenient usage frequent enough in English poetry, especially 
with Milton; and “has” and “is” are slurred, as is common at all 
times with these auxiliaries where not emphasized. 

Gismon' | da 0 God' | he lias falkn | he is dead' | hush, hush 

The variation does not arise from necessity. Besides the alterations 
that obviously might be made in the verse itself, the whole passage 
as originally written stood thus: 

Gis?n. He pulls upon it to try.— He is on it now ! 

He mounts ! — He is half way up ! — O God ! he has fallen ! 

[with anguish , yet in a suppressed tone. 

She retreats from the window. 


He is dead 1 





260 


NOTES TO 


Giul. Hush, hush, Madonna! ’t may not be. 

[Beckons her to the balcony , over which 
Giulietta is looking. 

Look ! he is moving; he is not hurt. He holds 

Both hands to his head. Look; now your eyes are us'd, etc. 

21. —P. 202. — quite —] I take pleasure in repeating here this 

word (or form of a word), which I would gladly revive. (See, on 
p. 135, Note 1.) If it be objected to, it is easy for the Stage to 
substitute “ pay,” or, for that matter, “ quit.” 

22. —P. 205. No, ’t is not very amiable.—] Or, “ No, ’t is more 
strong than amiable.” Or, again, “ No, ’t is more pertinent than 
nice.” The choice is with the Stage. 

23. —P. 205. Of every Pantaloon .] That is, Venetian gentleman. 
The origin of the word, whence our Pantaloon (Webster, with his 
absurdly-mongrel conjectural derivation, to the contrary notwith¬ 
standing,) is said, with great plausibility, to be Plantar leone {plant 
(fix) the lion), in allusion to the arms of Venice. In Italian, Panta- 
lone is a masque representing a Venetian (“ spezie di maschera rap- 
presentante il Veneziano.”) The Academy cites Michelangelo 
Buonaroti (the Younger) in La Fiera . 

24. —P. 206. It cost me dear then. II tca-s devilish hitler , etc.] 
Or, “Pleasantry in my mouth — but devilish bitter, etc." 

25. —P. 208. — Father damn ourselves , etc.] Or, if preferred, 

though it is not so characteristic in the situation: 

“ Rather our own folly, 

To fancy that wo trod on solid ground, 

While grinning at our neighbor's floor of glass.” 

The Stage sometimes strains at gnats, and damn in such a place 
(since thrice repeated) might be one of them. 



THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


281 


26. — P. 210. — what was perilous to reveal.~\ Perhaps, consider¬ 
ing the reason why Aloise uttered the cry, as indicated by the 
exclamation below, “0 fatal slip!” (i. e. of the lips, as respected 
Gismonda's secret,) it might be better to read, —“what he gladly 
would conceal.” 

27. —P. 210. I did. — 0 fatal slip! etc.] Otherwise, and more 
directly intelligible, but not so characteristic, nor so elevated in 
language: 

“ Did I ? — Unhappy error! 

1st Sur. Said I right ?” 


28. — P. 220. Lored. (muttered.) It yet may be.'] The misfortunes 
of the Foscari and the implacable hatred of the Loredani are well 
known to the readers of Byron. — It may be of interest to subjoin 
the following news-item cut from one of our journals a year after 
the composition of this drama. The Double Deceit was written, 
1855-6, (Dec. 4, 1855— Jan. 21, 1856); the scrap is marked in the 
margin simply 1856-7. 

“In one of his letters from Yenice, M. von Hacklander says that the illus¬ 
trious family of the Foscaris is extinct. A few years ago two old ladies of the 
name inhabited a small room in the family palace, and the last male scion of 
the Foscaris not long since died as an inferior member of a traveling histrionic 
company.” 

29. —P. 234. Take care of the columns !] A Venetian proverb 

and local superstition. Guardatevi del intercolonnio ! “ Beware of 

the space between the columns!” — because of the purpose to 
which anciently the place was put, viz. the beheading of criminals. 
Marin Faliero, when elected Doge, being unable to land at the 
usual place because of the tide, was forced to pass between the 
pillars. And the people remembered the omen, when he was after¬ 
wards beheaded. 



262 


NOTES TO THE DOUBLE DECEIT 


30. — P. 235. I wish I had them bound upon a plank , etc.] Said 
to be the mode of drowning criminals. 

31. — P. 239. {which from its private nature, etc.)] The whole of 
this parenthesis to be omitted on the Stage. 

32. — P. 251. Either just or, etc.] The present received pronun¬ 
ciation of either may make it advisable to substitute “Or just or, 
etc." 

33. —P. 252. And so a wedding meetly ends our play .] Here the 
Curtain may fall. All that follows is an addition made subsequently 
(January 22) to this, the original conclusion of the piece, and may 
by a caviling disposition be considered impertinent. It was made, 
to give Giulietta and Cassandra, who are really important and 
pleasant characters in the drama, an opportunity to say their say. 
The most serious objection to it (to me, but not to the Stage, which 
scarcely knows what verisimilitude or what nature is in our English 
drama) is on the score of probability. The parties would hardly 
remain in presence of the Senate, to gratify two saucy waiting- 
maids, even if these were likely to retain their smartness on such 
an occasion. The option, to admit or to reject, is with the Theatre. 

34. —P. 253. ’ Tis very likely, child ; etc.] Or, omitting Gismon- 

da's part* 

Chapl. ’T is very likely, child; I am getting old. 

Moro. Come, drop the baize ; our business here is o'er. 




THE MOFTAmr 


MDCCCLVI 


CHARACTERS, etc. 

Carlo di Tomma'so Montanino , 2 j Young nobles 
IppolTto de’Salimbent , 3 i of rival families. 

Gas'paro Beccari, one of the Nine Magistrates of the City. 
Giac'omo Gradenata, a citizen of honorable but decayed family. 

Gianni, aged servant of Carlo. 

Antonello, servant of Ippolito. 

Captain of Sbirri. 

Angelica, Carlo's sister. 

Cornelia, Ippolito's sister. 

Domicilla, his maiden aunt. 

Camilla Volpicina 4 , a widow , sister of Giacomo. 

Barbara, Angelica's maid. 

Mute Persons. 

Sbirri. A Jailer. 


Scene. In Siena , in the Y. 1322. 



THE MOHTAHIHI 


Act the First 

Scene I. In the Palazzo Montanvni. 

Carlo. Angelica. Beccari. 

Carlo. I have said enough, Ser Gasparo Beccari. 6 
You cannot have the farm. 

Becc. Well, make it ten. 

A thousand golden florins is a price 
None but myself would offer. Need I say, 

’Tis solely that our two estates adjoin, 

I bid so largely ? 

Carlo. But you bid in vain : 

It is my sole possession, save this house. 

And knowing this much I wonder you should strive 

To oust me from it. 

Becc. Messer Montanino, 


Vol. IV.— 12 









266 


THE MONTANINI 


You will perhaps not easily lend belief, 

That I, of the vulgar people who have driven 
Your overbearing order from the State, 

And who, being of the people, have been made 
One of their magistrates, thus bound to see 
That such of you as we suffer to remain 
Lift not their heads in the city, to o’erride it 
And bring again the rule of noble blood 
And servile vassalage of poor to rich.— 

You ’ll not believe that I, being such, should feel- 

I weary you perhaps, or chafe ? 

Carlo. Not either. 

My humble fortune teaches me to bear; 

Nor was I born impatient. 

Becc. That, I say, 

Being what I am, I have charity for you 
A noble of old blood, you will not credit. 

But I am Christian more than in my faith, 

And hold all men my brothers. When I think 
How great your sires, how wealthy, and how proud, 
Whose arms are everywhere — on palace-gate 
And castle-tower, yet all of which have pass’d 
To other, and to mostly meaner hands, 

As you would deem them- 

Carlo. ’Twas my sires’ own fault. 
Becc. Truly. They wasted upon private feuds 

The blood and treasure should have serv’d the State. 
Carlo. Pass over that. You do not keep me here 
To tell me that my ancestors were fools? 





ACT I. SC. 1. 


267 


Becc. I do not keep you here, I hope, at all. 

That I am come, is even for what I said. 

Shall I have license to explain myself? 

When I consider all your glorious past, 

And see what you are now : these palace-walls. 

Wherein might dwell a hundred cavaliers 
Nor yet be crowded, cheerless now and bare, 

Without perhaps one chamber meetly furnish’d 

For such a presence as your lady-sister’s- 

[Afs eyes, which have glanced around the room with 
half-covert mockery , now resting with open admira¬ 
tion on Angelica. 

Carlo. Messer Beccari! does your Christian heart 
Bid you insult my- 


Becc. Poverty ? Now Heaven 
Give you more insight, and make known your friends! 
My Christian heart, Messere Montanino, 

Bids me have pity both of you and yours. 

I find you living in this stately house 

♦ 

Straighten’d by indigence, with means sufficient 
Scarcely to keep yourselves, and one small maid, 

And an old porter, safe from winter’s cold. 

I offer for your faim a liberal price, 

Which properly invested would enlarge 
Your narrow” income: and to show I act 
With a pure sympathy for you, and yours, 

[looking again at Angelica. 
Make now the ten twelve hundred. If the farm 
Is pretty, it is small. 







268 


THE MONTANINI 


Carlo. But large enough, 

To give me here that living which, if mean, 

I not complain of, certainly not to you. 

Messer Beccari, it may be — I hope 
Truly it is — that you are well my friend. 

So rest: but give me leave to plainly tell you, 

My enemy Salimbene would not speak 

With such disparagement. If my fallen estate 

Touch you with sympathy, keep it in your breast. 

’T is friendship to alleviate distress; 

But to remind the sufferer of his wo 
Looks more like malice. 

Becc. Heaven is my judge, 

I meant it well. I pray you be not blind. 

For your sweet sister’s sake, subdue this pride. 

Will you not make provision for a future 

So rich in promise, as hers must be whose present 

Is full of grace ? [again looking admiringly on Angelica. 

Carlo, [with some asperity, but without passion. 
Ser Gfasparo Beccari, 

You can, I think, find out your way alone. 

I have but one male servant, as you said, 

And he is old. 

With a slight and distant inclination , but without 
disdain , Carlo, putting through his own the 
arm of Angelica, who , for the greater 
part of the dialogue , has stood lean¬ 
ing with her left hand on Carlo's 
right shoulder , leads her out. 





ACT I. SC. 2. 


269 


Becc. [with a low , but deep utterance. 

The devil take thy pride, 

Thou last green scion of a blasted tree ! — 

But she! How dark this desolate house appears 
How she is vanish’d! With what grace she lean’d 
On her stiff brother ! Hot the fairest form 
Of all the yellow marbles of old Greece, 

Hot the most delicate of the dainty Three 
Men call the Graces, which my father’s day 
Saw disinterr’d where stand the Duomo’s walls , 8 
Has such an attitude. Ah! could I gain her ! 

And ruin him ! — Perhaps, to ruin him 
Would be to gain her. She adores the beggar, 

And would do aught to save him. — Let me think. 

{Exit — pensively. 


Scene II. 

In the house of Giacomo. 

Giacomo. Camilla. 

Giac. Yes, that Ido! By Paul! I doubt him much. 
Beccari is but fooling thee. 

Camil. Pooling me ? 

Giac. Yea, thee, Camilla Widow Yolpicina. 




270 


THE MONTANINI 


Is that impossible, I should like to know ? 

Camil. Giacomo Bachelor Gradenata, ay; 

If that thou mean’st that Gasparo Beccari, 

Were he twice the man he is, could cozen me, 

And I not know it. But thou dost him wrong. 

He loves me, and- 

Giac. Why don’t he wed thee then ? 
Since he first woo’d thee, it is now two years. 

He does not wait for either to grow old. 

Camil. No, nor grow young: we both are young enough, 
And can afford to dally. ’Tis so sweet 
The hour of courtship that I wonder not 
Men should prolong it; and for me, I care not 
To hasten on the time when I must cease 
To rule as mistress and be rul’d as slave. 

Giac. That’s talk for a widow, now ! By holy Paul! 

I don’t believe a word of it! Tell me truly; 

Dost thou love Gasparo then ? 

Camil. My brother, yes. 

Else would I wed him ? 

Giac. [laughing harshly. 

What a fox thou art! 

But I am not a goose. A loving widow, 

And like long courtships ! Thou ’rt a jet-black swan. 
Dost thou forget, my sentimental sister, 

That we are poor, and Gasparo the rich 
May fancy some one who is more his mate ? 

He’s a republican, and upholds, thou knowest, 

A pure equality. 




ACT I. SC. 2. 


271 


Camil. Sorrow on thy jests ! 

They are like the eye of a serpent: and thy laugh 
Is pleasant as its hiss. 

Giac. Meek-thoughted sister! 

Camil. Thou art a friend of G-asparo’s. — 

Giac. Ay, his friend. 
And he is mine : I use him. But I do 
Distrust him damnably. I wish he’d wed thee. 
Camil. And so he will. What is the match to thee ? 
Giac. ’Twould leave one weight the less upon my mind, 
And make at least one Gradenata rich. 

Thou knowest thy charms : it is not I, that bill 
And coo with Gasparo : but he ’ll jilt thee, see ! 

For thou art poor. 

Camil. And he is rich for both. 

Besides, I bring him what he lacks. 

Giac. What’s that ? 

Long hair and beardless lips ? 

Camil. What most he prizes: 
Good birth and stainless lineage. If I stoop’d 
To wed the notary Batto Yolpicina, 

I shall not raise the Gradenate high 
By looking on a butcher’s son. 

Giac. He’s here. 

Enter Beccari. 

Becc. What, my fair Yolscian, though not Dian’s nymph . 7 
He takes her hand , though somewhat constrainedly. 



272 


THE MONTANINI 


Camil. [As he holds her hands , 

looking intently in his eyes. {He looks aside.) 

I am glad to see thee, Gasparo; but I fear, 

Thou art not well to-day. 

Becc. Why so? Not well? 

Camil. Or art not glad to see me in thy turn. 

Becc. Poll, child! that is but fancy. Yet I am 

In sooth disturb’d : a slight affair gone wrong — 

The business of the State- 

[looks at Giacomo significantly , then at Camilla , 
and at the door (not unobserved by Camilla). 

Thy brother and I 


Will talk it over. 

Giac. Camilla, for awhile, 

Leave us alone. 

Camil. I hope thy brow will clear 
By my return, dear Gasparo ; but methinks 
Thou’lt find poor help for business of the State 
In Giacomo’s unus’d brain, [going up. 

Becc. O, ’tis not much — 

A small affair, I said. [Exit Camil. by a door above — turn¬ 
ing round and smiling on Becc. as she disappears. 


Beccari and Giacomo bring down chairs. 

[First looking round at the door.] How goes it with thee ? 
Has thy luck turn’d, my friend? 

Giac. By Bacchus! no! 
I’m devilishly us’d up. I hope, Beccari, 

Thou wilt not soon be asking for thy gold ? 








ACT I. SC. 2 . 273 

— 

Becc. No, I would rather lend thee twice as much, 

So thou mig'ht’st win that back. But truly, Giacomo, 
Thou ’rt a sad spendthrift; and I dread to think, 

What with thy dice and women, thou mayst come 
One day to ruin. 

Giac. No, I know my verge: 

I shall stop short of it. But ’tis not spending 
Too fast or much, but little, keeps me down. 

Just when my luck is turning, lo, I stop! 

For want of more to venture. Cursed fate! 

Becc. What was thy last loss ? 

Giac. Five and twenty florins. 

Pio Birban'te offer’d me revenge. 

I could not take it; and he laugh’d, pest on him! 

Becc. Thou think’st thou couldst have won again ? 

Giac. Am sure. 

Thus stood the game : I’ll show thee how. — 

Becc. No matter. 

Thou’dst like again to venture ? 8 

Giac. But I shame 

Again to ask thee, Gasparo. - * 

Becc. Poh ! shame not. 

Shall we not soon be brothers ? Let me see. 

Now, I will venture four times twenty-five, 

And double that, so thou wilt do for me 
Something in turn. 

Giac. [suspiciously. 

Eh! ’T is some mischief. 

Becc. Fil 

12* 


V 



274 


THE MONTANINI 


Thy old distrust! How prompt thou art to borrow, 
But slow to lend! 

Giac. [starting up . 9 

Come, Gasparo Beccari, 

This is too much! I am not, man, thy slave. 

Becc. No, but thou art thy passions’. Look thou now ! 
What a poor wayward, tetchy thing thou art! 
Suspecting me ; but, when I in return 

Tax thee with scanty kindness- 

Giac. By St. John ! 

Thou didst reproach me- Blisters on my tongue! 

I shame to mention it. 

Becc. Thou hast no cause. 

Come, set thee down. I say — thou hast no cause . 10 
I had no thought of money. And if I had, 

Are we not brothers ? Thou wouldst do for me 
As much, were my lot thine. I wish it were . 11 
Giac. Well, that is kindly. I will take thy offer. 

I ’ll try my luck once more, and then leave off 
When I have won enough. 

* Becc. Why, that is wise. 

Giac. [again suspiciously. 

Thou mockest. 

Becc. On my soul! - But only try 

Largely. I ’ll back thee, till thou hast made thyself. 
Giac. Wilt thou ? [seizing his hand. 

That’s brave! But what is to be done ? 
By Jupiter ! this much will call for much, 

Or I mistake thee. ’T is the state-affair; 






ACT I. SC. 2. 


275 


Eh, my Beccari ? 

Be.cc. Psha ! that was a blind. 

Camilla has sharp eyes . 12 

Thou knowest, I think, 

How I have long’d to buy that little farm 
In the sweet vale of Strove, next my own. 

The beggar Montanino- 

Giac. Speak more low; 

Camilla has quick ears . 13 

Becc. ’T is well reminded. 

What was that noise ? Come out, to the open air. 

Close walls are not for secrets. [Exit, leading out Giac. 

Camil. [coming in from the door. 
Say’st thou so ? 

Why so it is then. Thou hast stopp’d my ears. 

I hardly think thou ’It put out both my eyes. 

One is for G-iacomo. — [ Pondering .] Montanino, eh ? — 

And thou hast long’d to buy his little farm ? — 

He ’ll not then sell it. — And my brother brib’d 
Through his pernicious vice. — Here is some plot. 

Ah ha! And thou a magistrate ! ’T is well. 

I ’ll be at the bottom of tin's before thou knowest. 

Then try to shake me from thee, an’ thou dare! 

Thou think’st I love thee. I should love to be 
The mistress of thy household. And I will. 

Goes up the stage again , towards the door : 
and Scene closes. 




276 


THE MONTANINI 


Scene III. 

The Piazza del Campo 
with the Fonte Gaja. 

Barbara 

is seen dipping a terra-cotta pitcher of antique form into 
the Fountain. She raises it to her head , when 
Enter , from the left , 

Antonello. 

Barbara going off to the right as Antonello crosses the stage ., 
she holes half-aside, and pretends to hurry from 
him. He arrests her. 

Anton. Eli, barbarous Barbara ! whither off so fast ? 

Don’t our ways lie together ? Stop a little! 

Nobody’s looking. There. [ looking about him , 

snatches a hiss. 

Thou ’rt quite a blossom ! 
Barb. If our ways lie together, saucy Nello, 

Yet our two houses, please, stand quite apart. 

The Montanini [ affecting grandeur ] have no consort with 
The Salimbeni. 

Anton. Better if they had. 

Barb. Come, that’s a deal too impudent. Dost think, 
Because we are poor, we ’re not as proud as you ? 

I have seen thy master look prodigious sweet 



ACT I. SC. 3. 


277 


On my sweet mistress. 

Anton. Hast tliou ? So have I. 

Would n’t it be a blessing, eh ! My lord — 

Thy lady — eh ? The Palace in a blaze- 

Barb. A blessing that! — There’s little though to burn. 

[shrugging her shoulders. 

Anton. I meant a blaze of lights, and not of fire. 

They two made one, my little maid and I 
Might hunt in couples. Eh, my dainty rib ! [ pinching her. 
Barb. Ouf! Don’t now ! G-et away ! thou ’It make me spill 
My water. And — Rooking off the scene. 

St. Domenic! get thee gone ! 

There’s Gianni coming ! Do go, Hello dear! 

Anton . Kiss me then, first. 

Barb. Not I! 

Anton. I sha’ n’t go then; 

Nor slialt thou either. 

Barb. [struggling and looking 
off the scene. 

Patience ! — There ! [ kissing him. 
4 And there ! 

[striking him on the ear. 

Anton. [laughing and rubbing his ear. 

I ’ll pay thee, Monna Barbara ! 

Exit, at the right , 

while Enter from the same , passing him , Gianni. 

Gian, [looking at him discontented 1 .g 
* and shaking his head. 

So — so — so ! 




278 


THE AfONTANINI 


Always with Antonello. I’m a-thinking, 

Thou ’dst best have nought to do with Masters foes. 

That’s my idea ! 

Barb. He is n’t Master’s foe. 

Nor is his master either. 

Gian. I say he is. 

They have been foes for twice a hundred years. 

Now ! And I ’m thinking, thou hadst best come home 
At once. That’s my idea. 

Barb. And my idea 

Is, thou hadst better mind thy own affairs. 

Gian. I am a-minding of my own affairs. 

The Mistress sent for thee. 

Barb. Why couldst thou not 
Say that at once ? [ hurrying off to right. 

Enter Beccari, from left , 
and stops her. 

Bec-c. My pretty Barbara ! What! 

Both out together! How will the old house 
Do without one of you ? 

Gian. ’T is n’t an old house ; 

And’t will do very well without, I’m thinking, 

If Master will it. Come away, [to Barbi] Thou ’dst best 
Have nought to do with magistrates, I ’in thinking. 

That’s my idea. [Exit, with Barb ., at right. 

Becc. And so’t is mine, old fellow. 

Pointing after them *■ 

scoffingly.] A goodly retinue for a noble house 1 



ACT I. SC. 4. 


279 


Thou ’It manage, though, to do without even these, 

I ’m thinking [ mimicking Gianni ], Messer Carlo. 

** 

All is ready. 

In a few minutes! - ’T was a hard ado 

To bring my would-be brother to the mark. 

I bad him high. He ’d sell his soul to the Devil 
For means to game with. Even such fools does vice, 
When grown a habit, make of men ! — I ’ll walk 
About this j)lace, until the work be done, 

And glut my soul with that proud beggar’s shame. 

He loolcs down the street ivhere Barbara, Ac., 
had disappeared , and 
Scene closes. 


Scene IV. 

In the Palazzo Montanini. Angelica's Apartment. 
Angelica seated embroidering. 

Carlo stands behind her, looking abstractedly on her work. 

After a few moments , 

Carlo. Angelica — I cannot drive from mind 

That man’s presumption. And it wakens now 
What memory, think’st thou ? — Salimbene’s looks 
Bent on my sister with such fond regard. 





280 


THE MONTANINI 


Angel. [ confused , and bending low over her work , 
which she discontinues. 

Oh Carlo ! thou wouldst not compare the two ? 

Carlo. Now God forbid ! I would not be unjust 
Even to an enemy. Leave thy work awhile. 

They come forward. 

He puts his right arm round her waist, and 
takes her left hand in his left. 

Now tell me, sweet: has Salimbene ever 
Given token of a wish to come more near ? 

Angel. ['with eyes cast down. 

Never, my brother, more than thou hast seen. 

When from my way to church with Barbara sole 
He meets me passing, bowing reverent-low, 

With head unbonneted, he yields the path 

As any noble cavalier might do 

To noble damsel of a neighboring house. 14 — 

Carlo. Even though an enemy’s. And that is all ? 

Angel. And that is all. 

Carlo. And tak’st thou not, sweet sister, 

More pleasure in his homage than in that 
Of other noble cavalier ? — Forgive me; 

I have no right to call this color here, [pressing his lips to 

her cheek. 

But oh, forget not, that we stand alone, 

And should be all in all to one another. 

Angel. [throwing both her arms about him. 

And we are all in all to one another. 







ACT I. SC. 4. 


281 




Carlo. [after pressing her a moment to 

his breast , lifts her off, and'resumes. 

And being alone should watch with double care 
That not a stain come on our. father’s name. 

Be charier of thy smiles to Salimbene. 

Angel. I have not been more than courteous that I know; 
At least, I have never thought to be. Oh why, 

Why, brother, lend thy bosom to distrust ? 

Ippolito Salimbene, all men say, 

Is open in heart as visage, and high-soul’d. 

Carlo. Yet he is wealthy: we are very poor. 

Angel. Does wealth exclude all virtue ? 

Carlo. No. But men 
Magnify into virtue in the rich 
All that is not bare vice; as in the poor 
The smallest spot of error swells to sin 
That is enormous. Salimbene’s heart 
Has never felt misfortune. What should cloud 
His happy visage ? Plac’d above dependance,. 

He needs not feel distrust. So, says the world, 

* “ Behold a frank and generous-minded man! ” 

Perhaps he is. But I, being poor, if sad 
Am call'd morose; and if, for I have found 
In my adversity men cold and false, 

Slothful to help and eager to betray, 

I doubt and stand aloof, I am thought suspicious, 

And my reserve set down to gloomy pride. 

A ngel. Oh how they wrong thee, brother ! Let them come 
And ask of me. Thou art not proud, not gloomy; 



282 


THE MONTANINI 


Thou art thyself too generous and true, 

To be suspicious of another’s faith. 

Carlo. Thou little flatterer ! What canst thou know ? 
Art thou then of the kind which men suspect ? 

» 

And to be gloomy under thy sweet smiles, 

Why that, my sister, were as one should shiver 
In the glad vernal sunshine. Thou art right: 

I have no ague ; not o’ the heart at least. 


Enter Barbara. 

But here is Barbara. Give her now her task, 

And let us go. 

Angelica passes up the stage with Barbara, and appears 
to give directions about another piece of 
embroidery , not her own. 

The air of this dull house 

Even here, where it seems lightest, weighs us down. 
What a rough nest for such a dainty bird! [glancing 

round him , and then fondly on 
his sister's figure. 

I could for her sake almost see it chang’d 
Even for an enemy’s bower. 

Angelica, leaving Barbara at the frame, 
comes down. 

Angel. What dost say, 

Carlino ? 

Carlo. I was murmuring at Heaven, 






ACT I. SC. 4. 


283 


Which, when it made thee all an angel, sweet, 

Forgot thy wings. 

Angel. So I should fly away, 

And leave thee lonely ? Earth is good enough 
With otily thee, dear Carlo. 

Carlo. Come then out. 

The open air is better for us birds. 

The heavens shall be our canopy; the turf 
A more elastic footing than these boards; 

The sunshine and the mottled shadows yield 
All that we need to decorate our rooms, 

Nor twit our poverty. 

Noise heard within , like the measured 
tramp of an armed band. 

What means that noise ? 

Enter Gianni in dismay. 

Qian. O my dear master ! here’s the guard broke in. 

Carlo. What are they come for ? 

Gian. For no good, I’m thinking. 

I could not keep them off. Make haste ! They ’re here! 
Fly, Messer Carlo! hide yourself! 0 do! 

Carlo. Not so. I must be found. 

Angelica clings to her brother's arm. 

Barbara, who has already left her work , ccmes forward, as 

Enter 


a party of Sbirri, headed by their Captain. 

Whom seek ye here? 



284 


THE MONTANINI 


By whose command ? 

Capt. By order of the Nine, 

I come to arrest Ser Carlo Montanino, 

Son of Messer' Tomma'so Montanino. 

You are he, I think. 

Carlo. I am. ’T is some mistake. 

Gian. ’T is some mean villany : that’s my idea. 

Carlo. Hush, good old man ! — On what grounds is this done ? 
Capt. ’T is not my part to answer. Lo, Messere, 

You have my warrant. 

Unfolding it , and, bowing over the seal , 
he hands the parchment to Carlo, who looks over it. 

Carlo. I own it, and obey. 

[returning the warrant. 

Angel. Oh no! he has done no wrong ! It cannot be ! 

0 let him stay : you can confine him here. 

Capt. Lady, it grieves me- 

Carlo. Sister, be assur’d. 

Do not cling to me so ! All will be well. 

Once found their error, I shall soon be back. 

Now there ! Now there ! 

Angel. One moment! [still clinging. 

Carlo. Oh my heart! 

’T is my sole terror, that I leave thee here, 

Afflicted and alone. Come then, bear up! 

Wilt thou not for a little, for my sake ? 

There ! [ kissing her]. Take her, Barbara. So. 

Now, Captain, quickly. 
[hurrying off. 




ACT I. SC. 4. 


285 


Angel. Oh God ! My brother! — Take me! take me too! 

[half-fainting in Carlo's arms. 

Carlo, kissing her on the forehead , puts 
her into the arms of Barbara, and is led of, bending 
his eyes continually on his sister. 

Drop falls. 



286 


THE MONTANINI 


Act the Second 
Scene I. In the Palazzo Salimbeni. 
Domicilla. Cornelia. 

Cornel. No, Aunt, I cannot think it. To be glad, 
Ippolito should be spiteful. Yet he is one 
Of the best good-natur’d men in all Siena. 

Domicil. And so he may be, yet be not ill pleas’d 
His enemy is in prison. In my day, 

Men were good haters. But the times are chang’d. 
Cornel. Not in good hating, Aunt. I am sure, if that 
Be a sign of progress, manhood in our day 
Is not degenerate. The Tolome'i 
And Salimbeni hate like Christians still. 

Domicil. They are the heads of two great factions, child. 
Why wilt thou contradict me ? In my day, 

I say, men were not so. 

Cornel. I had no thought 
To contradict thee, Aunt. 

Domicil. Now there, Cornelia! 
Again thou contradictest. In my day, 

Men did not easily forget a wrong. 

Thy brother, thou wilt see, despite his mirth, 

Will find a serious pleasure in the shame 




ACT II. SC. 1. 


28 1 


Of Carlo Montanino. 

Cornel. Poor young man ! 

What harm did he do my brother ? 

Domicil. How thou talk’st! 

Are they not enemies ? 

Cornel. Their foresires were, 

Some generations back. 

Domicil. Then so are they. 

That is inevitable. 

Cornel. 0 dear Aunt! 

Domicil. Why, is he not a friend of the Tolomei ? 

Cornel. But then he is so poor! what can he do ? 

Think of his desolation, all alone 
With one young sister; not another left 
Of all his father’s house! 

Domicil. Whose fault is that? 

The sins of the fathers, child, are punish’d down 
To their fourth generation. ’T is the law 
Given out in thunder from the Mount of God. 

Cornel. And writ in the code of Nature, but annull’d 
By later dispensation, in so far 
At least as mortal hands are made to wield 
The rod of Heaven’s vengeance. We are told 
Not to take eye for eye and tooth for tooth, 

But lend two cheeks to the striker, and to him 
Who steals our cloak to-give the mantle also. 

Domicil. That may be preaching, child, but ’tis not practice. 

At least it was not so, when I was young. 

Cornel. No, then it was taking all. Who filch’d your cloak, 


■b 



288 


THE MONTAN INI 


Was sure to get the mantle, if he could. 

Domicil. And does so now. And so men will, I think, 

Till the end of time. 

Cornel. Why yes; for so’t is said, 

To him, who much hath, shall be given much, 

And, who hath little, from him shall be reft 
The little that he hath. Poor Montanino, 

Being brought to the verge of ruin by the sin 
Of his wrong-headed ancestors, must now 
Be penn’d up in a dungeon! 

Domicil. For his own. 

’T is coat and cloak most truly. But I doubt 
He has deserv’d to lose them. 

Cornel. 0 my Aunt! 

With that good heart of thine, how canst thou judge 
So harshly ? And such cause of family feud ! 

’T is but a dog and a wild boar after all! 

Domicil. No, ’t was a man’s life taken, Massimino, 

One of the best of the Salimbeni, slain 
By Niccolo Montanino, a wild youth 
Whose heart’s blood altogether was not worth 
One drop of Massimino’s! That one drop 
Has bled two hundred years, and still will bleed 
While beats a heart with Montanini’s pulse. 

Cornel. Now Heaven forefend ! But tell me, dear my aunt, 
How this fell out. I cannot keep the count 
For twice a hundred years. 

Domicil. Ah, times are chang’d! 

In my day, damsels of a noble house 



ACT II. SC. 1. 


289 


Knew all their lineage, and could trace their blood 
Back to Rome’s consuls, were the race so long. 

Cornel. It must have run a stream as long as the Arbia, 16 
And not so pure as what supplies our fountains. 

Domicil. Thou art degenerate ! no true Salimbene. 

Cornel. Forgive me, Aunt; I needs must be amus’d, 

To hear of families whose noble blood 
Bubbled before the she-wolf had a lair. 16 
I thought we were of the oldest and the best. 

Domicil. And so we are, as ancient and as good 
As the Tolomei. Then come Saracini, 

And Piccolo'mini, and Malavolti. 

The Montanini are behind all these. — 

But to my tale. 

Two hundred years ago, 

Soon after the great Countess 17 quit the world, 
Bequeathing to the Pope what was not hers 
To give away, and the Sane'si 18 freed 
Had not yet driven out their bravest and best, 

And us’d their footcloth for a diadem — 

Cornel. That means, while yet the nobles rul’d. 

Domicil. What else ? 

Upon a certain day, a numerous party 
Of high-born youth rode out to hunt the boar. 

On the return, discoursing of their feats, 

Whose hounds were foremost, strongest, and most bold, 
The Salimbeni claim’d the day as theirs, 

The Montanini theirs. The strife wax’d hot. 

From words it came to blows: and swords were drawn: 

Vol. IV.—13 



290 


THE MONTANINI 


And Niccold Montanino, mad with rage, 

Smote Massimino of the Salimbeni 

Dead on the field. Thence vengeance. Thence the feud 
Which rag’d, at intervals, twice eightscore years; 

Till, stript of all their castles, and their race 
Almost exhausted, (for the Salimbeni, 

The richest and most widely branching house 
In all Siena, greatly overmatch’d them,) 

The Montanini quench’d, the fire burn’d out. 

But there the cinders are, and smoulder still. 

Cornel. And who would stir them ? Not my brother, sure. 
Poor Montanino! if thy sires were bloody, 

Thy beggar’d fortunes and thy dwindled race 
Have made atonement! 

Domicil. Why, Cornelia, child ! 

Thou hadst better fall in love with Messer Carlo, 

And build the house up! 

Cornel. Not so far as that: 

I am no mason. But I tell thee, Aunt, 

Light as I am, I have reason strong enough, 

And heart I hope, to hold these feuds in horror. 

And more, I dare avow, young Montanino, 

Last of his race and with his ruin’d fortune, 

Alone with that sweet sister, both so sad, 

And both so noble in their gentle mien, 

Has for my heart and fancy more attraction 
Than any of my brother’s happier friends. 

I think how I should like to draw him near 
And smile away his sadness, and to make 



ACT II. SC. 1. 


291 


That dear Angelica my bosom’s friend. 

Domicil. Why, did I ever!- No, when I was young, 

A maiden had as-soon bit off her tongue, 

As prais’d an enemy. And I suppose, 

Now that the youth is prison’d for some crime, 

Thou ’It make a saint of him. 

Cornel. That is to see. 

Here Antonello comes. I bade him learn 
What had transpired. 

Domicil. Thou didst ? The girl is mad ! 

Why, in my day !- Ah, times indeed are chang’d ! 

I wonder how the world will get along! 

Enter Antonello. 

Cornel. Why very much as though no Montanino 
Nor Salimbene were in’t! We are but bubbles 
Floating upon some portion of the flood, 

Which, whether we break at once or swim awhile. 

Rolls downward to the ocean, all the same. — 

Well, Antonello? 

Domicil. Really! I did never! — 

Anton. \He speaks throughout , though still quickly , yet more de¬ 
liberately, through respect , than when with Barbara. 
I met with Monna Gelica’s 19 young maid, 

Who had told me of her master’s taking up, 

Madonna, as you know. 

Cornel. And what said*s/ie f 

Anton. He has been charg'd before the Nine with practising 
With the Messeri of the Tolomei 

I 






292 


THE MONTANINI 


<r 


To bring the exil’d nobles back again. 
Domicil. Plotting with Deo of the Tolomei, 


The banish’d G-uelf ! 20 What say’st>thou, child, to that? 
Cornel. ’T is, Aunt, a mere political offence, — 

Rebellion, — even if the charge be prov’d. 

Domicil. Don’t contradict me, child : I say, ’t is crime. 

Leag’d with the Tolomei to expel 

The Salimbeni! Said I not he was 

Our house’s foe ! Is’t prov’d ? [to Anton. 

Anton. Madonna, yes. 

Domicil. And what his punishment ? 

Anton. Condemn’d to pay 
A thousand florins , 21 or to lose his head. 

Cornel. ’T is tyranny! Ippolito so will say. 

That poor Angelica! and her brother’s life ! 

Domicil. Ippolito will say no such a thing. 

And poor Angelica need not be concern’d : 

„ Their friends will pay the fine and save his life. — 

Plotting with Deo of the Tolomei, 

The banish’d Guelf! I told thee that the cinders 
Were smouldering still. Put thou wouldst not believe. 
Young folk were not so headstrong in my day. 

[Exit Domicil. , 

Cornel. Is Messer Carlo really condemn’d ? * 

Anton. I stood before the Palace of the Signory. 

Men talk’d of nothing else. The}’' say, he is given 
Two weeks to pay the mulct in. 

Cornel. Poor young lady! 

How did she bear it? 



ACT II. SC. 1. 


293 


Anton. As you may suppose, 

Knowing, Madonna, that her brother was 
A god in the lady’s eyes. She swoon’d away. 

I wish my master were return’d ! 

Cornel. For what ? 

Anton. I don’t know, Monna Nelia. But you see — 

Monna Angelica is the sweetest creature! 

My master is — I think- An angel quite ! 

Cornel. Thy master ? 

Anton. Monna Gelica, I mean. 

Cornel. I think so too, good Hello. Say no more. 

Learn all thou canst. And, hark thou ! if it be 
Thou hear’st the desolate lady is in need 
Of aught that I can furnish, let me know. 

I will supply it. Only, have a care 
She shall not know the true source whence it comes. 
Anton. God’s life! Madonna, thou ’rt an angel too ! 

Cornel. Thou knowest, Madonna Angelica and I 

Are neighbors, and good manners spread by contact. 

Go now, hear all, and see all; but thy mouth, 

For Salimbene’s honor, keep thou close ! 

[Exit, joyf ully , but with marked respect , Anton. 
I would too that Ippolito were back ! 

What will he do ? He loves that lovely lady 
Better than life. And say what will my aunt, 

He has no feeling of enmity for the brother, 

But thinks as I do of these silly feuds. 

I would I durst inform her of his love ! 

But her kind heart is so o’ergrown with weeds 









294 


THE MONTANINI 


Of genealogy and family pride, 

They choke the wheat of sense and Christian grace. 

To think of fighting for a pack of hounds! 

And a whole family spent for one boar’s blood! 

I wonder not the people are sick of rank 
And shut ancestral honors from their gates. 

If Carlo Montanino sought to open them, 

His head is not so solid as it looks, 

And might, for all its use, as well be off. 

[Turns to make her Exit , in same direction as Domicilla , 

and Scene closes. 





ACT II. SC. 2. 


295 


Scene II. 

A cell in the 'public prison. 

Carlo, 

seated on a bench apparently of stone , and leaning 
pensively on a small table of seemingly similar material , his 

forehead on his hand. 

* A noise within , as of bolts withdrawn , 
and a narrow vaulted door , at the right , opens. A Jailer 
gives admittance to Beccari, and then , at a sign 
from the latter , shuts in the two 
together. 

Becc. [after a moment — Carlo not rising. 

You sent for me, Messere. I have come. 

Carlo, dropping his hand , looks at him steadily, 
but does not rise. 

Will it please you speak ? ’T is not a thing most usual 
For a high Signor of the State to wait 
On a convicted culprit. 

Carlo rises with dignity , and comes forward with 
an air of tranquil yet melancholy majesty, and 
speaks in a. tone corresponding to his mien. 

Carlo. I am not — 

Neither culprit, nor convicted; though condemn’d, 

I feel, most truly, and condemn’d unjustly. 

I had no thought, Messer', to wound } T our pride. 


296 


THE MONTAHSTNI 


You were not of the bench which took away 
My liberty on a perjur’d charge, sustain’d 
By no clear evidence, and against whose substance 
I was not suffer’d even to protest. 

Becc. I was not on the bench; but being of those 

Who judg’d and who condemn’d you, must not hear 
Their justice call’d in question. Not for me 
To sentence you unheard ; nor will you credit, 

That I, whom’t not concerns, should greatly care 
Whether you be or innocent or not. 

But all men are my brothers, and as man 
My heart can throb with sympathy for those 
Whom as a magistrate my tongue must censure. 

For this, and for your noble sister’s sake- 

Carlo. [ quietly , yet with slight severity. 

My sister leave alone, and speak of me. 

Becc. Why hinder that an angel come between 
Our earthy natures, and make smooth a path 
That either may without her find too rough ? 

Carlo. [with increased severity , yet without passion. 

Messer', Messere'! this is to abuse 
Our several positions. What you mean 
I know not, but between yourself and me 
Is no affair wherein my sister mingles. 

Becc. Well, Messer Carlo Montanino, well. 

I thought you had found need of me, and came 
To offer help. Why sent you for me then ? 

Carlo. Ser Gasparo Beccari, oftentimes 

You have sued to me to have my only farm 








ACT II. SC. 2. 


297 


Down in the vale of Strove, and late offer’d 
Up to twelve hundred florins, which I refus’d, 
Not willing then to sell at any price. 

My need now is ascendant. Take the farm. 

Becc. No, Messer Montan in o ; times are chang'd. 

To tempt you, I made offers far above 

The actual value. These you chose, from pride, 

Or fancy, or whatever cause you will, 

Flatly to set at nought. ’T is now my turn. 

You ask to sell. I will not give you now 
Twelve hundred florins. 

Carlo. I had not suppos’d 
You wish’d to chaffer. 

Becc. Then you quite forgot 
I am a merchant, as your foresires were, 

And were, ’t is not yet threescore years gone by, 
The great destroyers of your lesser race, 

The wealthy Salimbeni; wiser they, 

And better patriots, who could lend the State 
For one emergence twenty thousand florins 
Out of their private coffers. 

✓— 

Carlo. But well secur’d . 22 
What boots this reminiscence ? That my sires 
Were not of the dominant faction, let my need, 
And that I am now imprison’d on a charge 
Utterly false, untried, without a word 
Permitted in defence, and doom’d to lose 
My life, or pay a fine beyond my means, 

Let this attest, and plead for your forbearance ; 

13 * 



298 


THE MONTANINI 


Nor seek to wound who casts no stone at jmu. 

Becc. I might reply, Messere, that you have, 

Though it fell short. But let us pass that over. 

Our talk is now of money. He who bids 
For what is not on sale must offer largely. 

I did so. Who would sell where is no bid, 

Must tempt with easy prices. You do not. 

I dropp’d the magistrate at your desire; 

I can resume it, so please you, and withdraw. [turns to go. 
Carlo. Yet stay. 

lie walks up the stage. Beccari watches him with a look of 
exultant malignity , which he instantly suppresses , when 
Carlo, returning , raises his head and resumes. 

’T is hard. But I have no resource. 

Give me a thousand florins, and take the farm. 

Becc. ’T was my first offer, truly. But remember, 

I bade you note’t was much beyond its worth. 

’T is you that wish to sell, not I to buy. 

The case is alter’d. 

Carlo. Do I hear aright ? 

Is this your charity ? 

Becc. ’T is my common sense. 

I wonder you not see it. 

Carlo. ’T is because 

You sought to blind me with your Christian love 
And human sympathy. 

Becc. That was no blind. 

I hold all men my brothers, and I sorrow 
For you as for all others, but no more. 



ACT II. SC. 2. 


299 


I do to you what you would do to me 
Under like circumstances. 

Carlo, [loftily , and with more of passion 
than he has hitherto betrayed. 
Never! No, 

Not were you my worst enemy. 

Becc. So you think. 

It is but your opinion. I have mine. 

I am a stranger to your class as blood, 

A man of the people : why do you appeal 
To me, when you have friends of your own rank ? 

Your father’s blood is lessen’d to the veins 
Of only two : but yet your mother’s flows 
In a fair stream. Not wholly are you spent, 

Nor quite alone. There are who boast your kin 
Who are rich, though happily for the public peace 
And common weal they are no more of note. 

Why in your urgence not solicit them ? 

Carlo. You ask to mock me, knowing well ere this 

They had freed me, were’t their will. They haply dread, 
Being of a faction hated by your rule, 

To fall into suspicion, lend they aid 
To a suspected rebel. 

Becc. Lo you now ! 

Your mother’s blood grows niggard, and the friends 
Of your own faction pale before the terror 
Of charg’d complicity, yet you call on me 
A Grhibeline and an alien to your race, 

A ruler in the city which condemns you, 



300 


THE MONTANINI 


To lend you aid, and venture my good name 
With my associate rulers and the people 
Whose interests by so doing I may betray! 

Well, I will venture; I have come for that; 

And let your conscience after bid you blush, 

That you have cast a slur upon my charity 
And Christian love. Messer Carlo Montanino, 

I will take your land in Strove at its worth. 

The residue to make up your amercement 
May easily be found : so much your friends 
May lend, nor give suspicion to the State. 

Carlo. What is your offer ? 

Becc. What the farm would bring 
To-morrow were it set to public sale: 

Seven hundred florins. 

Carlo. Let our parle here cease. 

The o’erstrain’d tyranny which has sent me hither, 

An innocent man, to ruin or to death, 

Is not more odious than the skulking malice 
Which flouts my poverty and the rampant avarice 
Which drives a bargain with my mortal need, 

Usurping blasphemously the pure name 
Of Christian charity. There is the door. 

[said loftily , but with a melancholy 
majesty that is above passion. 

While Beccari replies , the cell door is again 
thrown open , and the Jailer admits 

> 

Angelica and Barbara. 



ACT II. SC. 2. 


301 


Barbara remains in the background. Angelica without 
a word throws herself upon Carlo’s breast , who 
presses her there in silence until Beccari, 
whom he does not from this time 
regard , has made his Exit. 

Becc. Since I am here invited, Messer Carlo, 

* 

You should have left me to depart unbidden. 

Your insult on the magistral authority 
I shall not to your detriment report. 

Your obloquy of me, and most ungrateful 
Perversion of my meaning, I shall strive, 

More for that noble lady’s sake than yours, 

To not remember, and for her sweet sake 
Will do you service yet despite yourself. 

Meanwhile, peace with you! — Jailer, let me forth. 

[knocks at the door , which is open'd. 

Exit Beccari. 

Angel. Oh Carlo ! is all hopeless ? Oh my brother ! 

Carlo, [raising her from his breast 

and kissing her on the forehead. 

Why ask, Angelica ? Was thy quest in vain ? 

Bertuccio Arrigucci will not aid me ? 

Angel. Alas ! he listen’d kindly, seem’d surpris’d 
To hear of thy embarrassment, and distress’d 
To think he must refuse ; because, he said, 

His known attachment to the banish’d side, 

And his affinity, through his son Rugiero, 

With Messer Sozzo Dei, made it for him 



302 


THE MONTANTNT 


More dangerous than for others to lend thee aid. 

He wonder’d that you did not sell your farm, 

Which must he thought bring full a thousand florins. 
Carlo. Thus all of them prepare to see me die ! 

I was unjust to accuse this butcher’s son, 

The associate of a tyrannous popular rule, 

Of want of charity and malicious will, 

When my own kindred and best-trusted friends, 

To escape suspicion and a possible fine, 

Selfishly give me over to the axe. 

What though they should affront even risk of exile, 

Or sequestration of all worldly goods, 

Is not my blood in the scale ? And were theirs balanc’d, 
Would not I venture more ? even life as well ? 

But no! that is for me to exact too much. 

Nor do I do it, Angelica. Yet — and yet — 

Why did not my rich cousin advance the means 
To others less obnoxious, and through them 
Have got me clear ? 

Angel. ’T is like he did not think it. 

I will to him instantly and urge the plan. 

Carlo. No; he will tell thee that the State would trace 
The ransom to its source and make him answer. 

Thou shalt not blush, nor for thyself nor me, 

At his renew’d refusal. 

Angel. In such a case 

There can be nought to blush for. Rather shame 
Is his who, in an hour of mortal need, 

Denies a kinsman aid, than his who asks it. 



4 


ACT II. SC. 2. 303 

Oh let me back, my brother! if not to him, 

Yet to some other. Do not shake thy head ! 

Where life is hope is, and it cannot be 
All will repel ns. 

Carlo. I do fear it will. 

* There is none to us allied, remote or near, 

That is not fallen into some suspect 
With the malignant Nine, or will not plead 
Their jealous fears, to avoid the doing of what 
Might haply move suspicion. No, believe me, 

He who would aid me will not need be ask’d. 

Angel. Then must we sell our pretty place in Strove. 

Do it, dear Carlo, and quit this fearful den. 

Carlo. Poor child! And wilt thou tell me how to sell ? 

Didst thou not mark Beccari’s mood in parting ? 

Angel. Something I noted in his tone: not much. 

He seem’d to have been repuls’d. He came to buy ? 
Carlo. Doubtful, since others fail’d me, that Bertuccio 
Would listen even to thee, I sent to speak 
With Ser Beccari, and had from him a lesson 
Was hardly needed. 

Angel. What was that, my brother? 

Carlo. Thou hast mark’d, among the gentlest even of birds, 
How when one sickens, or is broken-wing’d, 

The rest will peck at him, nay oftentimes 
The male at the wmunded female. So with men. 

The strong, who need no help, have help in plenty. 

’T is press’d upon them even against their will. 

The feeble cry in vain; their happier brothers 


» 



804 


THE MONTANINI 


* Pluck at their feathers and worry them to death. 
Angel. No, Carlo, not with all. [embracing him. 

Carlo. No, Earth were Hell, 
Were there no angels in it. But thou, my cherub, 
Thy wing is broken too. 

Angel. Thou dost not mean, 

We cling together only that we both 
Are poor and helpless ? 

Carlo. No; thought I that, 

The headsman’s axe were welcome. Said I not, 
Thou art an angel ? While thou tread’st its walks 
Earth still has Paradise, and therefore only, 

For thy sweet sake, I struggle yet to live. — 

But to the means of life — which yet I see not. 
Beccari offer’d for the farm, thou knowest, 

Twelve hundred florins. Then, I could refuse. 
Now I must offer, he will not give me more 
Than seven hundred. ’T is the law of trade. 

So he would teach me. But I rather think it 
The law of common nature. I am down : 

Why lift me up ? My body stops the way. 

Let the proud trample on it, or step over, 

Nor stop to ask if yet its heart beats warm. 

Angel. 0 do not talk so desperately, dear brother ! 

See ! through thy prison-bars the setting sun 
Darts even now a line of level gold. 

It has been hidden all the livelong day. 

Accept the omen, Carlo: trust in God, 

Who will not leave thy virtue unrepaid. 



ACT II. SC. 2. 


305 


Carlo. No, thine, sweet saint: mine has no note in Heaven: 
This ray of sunset fortune shines for thee. 

Be it! I shall die happy. 

Angel. Carlo ! Carlo! 

This doubt tempts Providence: and this despair, 

Is it for me to listen ? 

Carlo. No, forgive me. 

I will for thy sake think what may be done. 

Angel. Think not, but act! Command the farm be sold! 

Bertuccio valued it a thousand florins. 

Carlo. Well, I will ponder. Sleep thou undisturb’d. 

[stooping to kiss her. 

Angel. [throwing herself on his neck. 

Sleep undisturb’d! while thou art pillow’d here ? 

Carlo. Fi, fi! is this thy trust in Heaven ? See now ! 

Thou art making good Barbara herself to cry ! 

Cheer up, my sister! — So ! — Knock, Barba, now. 

[Barb, knocks on the portal, which is 
opened by the Jailer. 

Good even, Angelica. [ embracing her. 

Angel. Do sell the farm ! 

Do, do, my brother ! [/Asses him fondly and repeatedly , 
then , going out , suddenly comes back , and 
embraces him silently , and Exit , 
followed by Barbara. 

The door is closed , and the 
bolts are heard within. 

Carlo. And what wouldst thou then do ? 
Must I give thee to beggary ? thee ? I will 



306 


THE MONTANINI 


Indeed well ponder it. — The ray is fled. 

[i looking off the scene. 

It came with thee, and would not stay, thou gone. 

And now, without that double light, these walls 
Are blacker than before. — 0 guard her, Heaven I 

With me do even as befits Thy Will, 

But have, I pray, have mercy upon her! 

He walks up the stage , and Scene closes. 


Scene III. 

The Entrance of the Palazzo Montanini within. 

The Background presents the Great Gate 
closed. On the Right , the lower 
steps of a winding staircase. 

On the Left , the Por¬ 
ter's Lodge. 

Knocking without. 

Enter Gianni from the Lodge. 

Gianni. Now, who can that be, knocking at the gate ? 

You ’ll not get in, I’m thinking! now! — St. John! 




9 


ACT II. SC. 3. 


SOI 


You ’re in a hurry! 

Moving slowly to the gate.] But there takes one more 
To give you speed; and that’s not I. I ’ll see, 

However, who you be: it is n’t safe, 

Now everybody’s out- Ay, ay, I hear! 

[draws a slide covering a latticed loophole and looks out. 
Hum ! Ser Beccari! What wants he, I wonder. 

[ Opens partially a postern in the great door and , 
looking out , 

The mistress’s out; and Barbara is out ; 

The master’s where nobody better knows 
Than you, I’m thinking. So you can’t come in, 

Messer Beccari. [offering to shut the postern. 

It is pushed hack , and ) brushing by him , 

Enter Beccari. 

Becc. Never mind, mv friend, 

I ’ll wait thy mistress. 

Gian. Mistress is n’t us’d 
To be awaited. She is where she ought, 

Consoling my poor master, Messer Carlo, 

Who’s where he ought not; greater shame to those 
Who put him there! and won’t be home till dark. 

Becc. That won’t be long; the sun is setting now. 

Come, my good Gianni; thou ’rt a brave old fellow, 

Plain, downright, honest stuff, such as I like; 

And- 

Gian. No, I a’n’t; nor plain, nor honest more 


\ 





308 


THE MONTANINI 


Than other folk, I’m thinking; but I know 
Just what I like and what I don’t like, and 
I show it. 

Becc. And that’s downright. 

Gian . No, it is n’t; 

It’s natural: that’s my idea. 

Becc. Well, be it. 

It is thy nature, Grianni, and’t is mine, 

To show our likings. And I do so now. 

Come, there is money. [Gianni looks at it wistfully , but 

turns away. 

Nay, my frank old man ; 

’T is frankly offer’d; and I know thou need’st it; 

Ye are not over well provided here. 

Gian. I say we are : who told you we were not ? 

And I can take no pay but from the master. 

Put up your money : you are tempting me 
To nothing good, I’m thinking; but you won’t 
Succeed : that’s my idea. 

Becc. If I had thought to, 

I had not try’d to tempt thee, as thou call’st it. 

No, good old man, I am thy master’s friend, 

Although he does not know it; would gladly aid him, 

As I would all the unhappy of mankind. 

Gian, [who has shook his head distrustfully while 
Becc. spoke. 

But I am not unhappy. 

Becc. Peace! — It is 
Because I know thee loyal to thy lord 



ACT II. SC. 3. 


309 


I seek to do thee kindness. Take it! [offering again the 
money. Gianni looks wistfully and sidelong at it, as be¬ 
fore , but struggles with his desire , and shakes his head. 

No? 

Well then, some other time. And ’t is for this, 

My wish to serve thy master spite himself, 

I ’d speak with thy young mistress. Tell me now — 
Thou knowest, good Gianni — of what mood is she ? 
Gian. Eh ? 

Becc. Of what temper, disposition ? 

Gian. Oh! 

The same as Master’s. 

Becc. So ? I should have thought 
They hardly were alike. And what is his ? 

Gian. The same as mine : he don’t like strangers. So, 

Please to go out, Messer Beccari. 

Becc. Come ! 

Please to remember what I am. 

Gian. I do. 

You are one of our rulers, the more shame for you. 

The people do not like you any more 
Than do the nobles; only, these dare not 
Speak out their minds, as dare the people, and I, 

Because you cannot hurt me, since I am 
Not worth the hurting. But you are a set 
Of shabby tyrants, and you know it; and 
The sooner we are rid of you, the better. 23 
That’s my idea. 

Becc. Plain, downright, honest Gianni ! 



310 


THE MONTANINI 


Dost recollect, though I may not hurt thee , 

These sentiments, reported as thy master’s, 

May hurt him ? 

Gian. Well; he is in prison, is n’t he? 

And I don’t know but that you put him there. 

Becc. I ? No! I should be glad to get him out. 

Gian. Well, do it then: that’s better than to say it: 

And I shall think the better of you. But 
You cannot do it here: and, as Madonna 
Is not at home, I wish you would go out. 

That’s my idea. 

Becc. \turning to go. 

It’s my idea, my friend, 

Thou dost not know thy right foot from thy left. 

But I shall come to-morrow ; and thou ’It see 
I am thy lady’s right hand in this strait. 

Commend me to her, and tell her I so said. 

Gian. [opening the postern. 

I ’ll tell her that a magistrate was here, 

And recommend her not to have to do 
With any of that sort. That’s my idea. 

\Exit Beccari. 

Good even, Ser Beccari. — 

Shutting the door. ] And the Devil 
Go with you, and the like of you ! — I’m glad 
He’s gone. Madonna will come home 
Quite sad enough from poor dear Master’s prison, 
Without this beast to make her cry, I’m thinking. 
He’s got long claws, I ’ll warrant, though he purs. 



ACT II. SC. 3. 


311 


I ’ve seen the kind before ; you rub the fur 

A little rough, and out the nails come sharp. — 

’T is time she was a-coming. I ’ll look out. 

[opening again the postern. 
0 Messer Carlo, it will break her heart 

II they should kill you ! and I think ’t will mine. 

He puts his head out at the opening , and 

Scene closes. 


0 


I 



312 


THE MONTANINI 


Act the Third 
Scene I. As in Act I. Scene I 

Angelica 

coming slowly forward to Becc art, who, lowing profoundly, 
appears to have just entered ; Barbara also ad¬ 
vancing, hut keeping behind her mistress , 
a little in the background. 


Becc. Madonna, does this moment find you free ? 

Angel. As free as at a time of such distress 

I can be. What is Ser Beccari’s pleasure ? 

Becc. To do away, Madonna, that distress, 

If so it please you. In your own hand lies 
Your brother’s destiny. 

Angel. In mine ? In mine ? 

And I not know it ? But you are of the Nine. 
Speak, speak, Messer'! Why has he languish’d then 
Ten days in prison ? I do not understand you. 

In my hand? Speak! 

Becc. In thine, most truly, lady. 

i 

Had I obey’d my feelings, I had come 
Five days ago to see you, as I promis’d 
That evening when you loiter’d at the prison 
And your rude porter would not let me wait. 


ACT III. SC. 1. 


313 


Angel. 0 do not call him rude, that good old man! 

He is but loyal; ’t is our house’s sorrow 

Has fill’d him with distrust. 

Becc. I do not blame him; 

He follows but the master’s gloomy lead. 

And’t is for this alone his captious humor 

Deserves my mention. Pride and cold disdain 

Meet, on your brother’s part, my Christian offers, 

And my best efforts are thwarted by distrust. 

Angel. [losing her animation, and resuming the air of dignity and 

reserve with which she had met Beccari. 

You do remind me. ’T is that you yourself 

♦ 

Have given him cause to judge you harshly. 

Becc. How? 

I came to him to offer for his farm ; 

And did so largely. He refus’d, and haughtily. 

Angel. I think not: haughtiness is not his vice. 

Becc. No, ’t is his weakness. 

[Angel, evinces pain and displeasure. 

Pardon! I meant not 
* 

To ruffle feelings which I most revere. 

He did refuse: Madonna, you were by. 

Angel. He wish’d not then to sell. But, chang’d the case, 

He sent for you; and then you did reject 

The terms you had offer’d. 

Becc. ’T was, the case was chang’d. 

Angel. What! do you drive a traffic with distress, 

And in the emergence of a mortal need 

Find pretext to enhance the means of aid ? 

Vol. IV.— 14 



314 


THE MONTANINI 


Becc. Why not, young lady ? Do not all men so ? 

I ask’d your brother, and I ask you now, 

Why do not his own friends, your mother’s kin, 
Assist him? 

Angel. Wo is us! they dare not do it. 

But you, Messere, dare. 

Becc. No more than they. 

Might I not be suspected too ? No, lady, 

Your brother, Messer Carlo, has not had 

That deference for me he should have had. 

I would befriend him. Will you let me so ? 

Look at the Salimbeni, his destroyers- 

* 

Angel. Wrong not the innocent! 

Becc. Pardon ! I should say, 
Destroyers of his race. What gave them power ? 
They owe it not to their enormous wealth, 24 
But to their influence with the popular party, 

Their union with the dominant cause, through which 
They drove their sole great rivals from the State. 
Angel. To what tends this ? I own, Messer Beccari, 

You are of the Nine; and therefore more I wonder, 
That having the power, and the will professing, 

To aid my hapless brother in this strait, 

You but parade it, and not use it. 

Becc. Lady, 

I only bid you mark it, in the hope 
You now will bid me use it; for on you, 

And you alone, depends it that I do. 

Aingel. What mean you ? 




ACT III. SC. 1. 


315 


Becc. Said I not, that in your hands 
Lies your lov’d brother’s destiny ? 

Angel. Explain. 

Keep me not anxious! 

Becc. Bid your servant then, 

I pray you of your courtesy, for my sake, 

Withdraw a brief while. 

Angel. Backward a few steps, 

Out of all hearing, if that will suffice. 

Becc. If so it must be. 

Angel. Barbara, retire; 

But keep in sight. 

Barbara goes up the stage, hut very soon, when 
Beccari has ceased to observe her, moves 
nearer by degrees, and listens. 

Now briefly. 

Becc. [looking back, then in a 
lower tone. 

Were, Madonna, 

Your brother my ally ; in other words, 

Our interests made one- 

Angel. That cannot be. 

Not for his life would Carlo change his faction, 

Were not his sentiments first chang’d. 

Becc. Dear lady, 

You do misapprehend me. Not through him 
The*alliance I propose, but — dare I say’t ? 





316 


THE MONTA.NINI 


Through you. 

Angel. Speak more conceivably, Messere. 
Becc. I see around in these disfurnish’d rooms 
No mirror hung, or I would bid you look, 

And there receive my answer. 

Angel. Barbara! 

Becc. Nay, 

Call her not to you. Think! in five days more, 
Your brother’s life is forfeit. Will you not 
Beach out a hand to save him ? 

Angel. By what means? 
Becc. By lifting up the fortune I would lay 
At your fair feet, and with it lifting me. 

Angel. Never ! I trust in Heaven ; nor will I stoop 
To even listen to what is shame from one 
Who builds his hopes of winning me — since so 
I needs must understand'yon — on the ruin 
Of my own brother. Come, Barbara. 

Becc. Lady, no! 

By your own gentle self, I pray! one word! 
Think not so meanly of me, deem me not 
So senseless-daring, had I even the heart, 

To offer in exchange your brother’s life 
For the high honor of your hand. Believing 
I am too humble, having in myself 

No claim to do you homage- 

Angel. Cease, Messere. 

In any way I would not listen ; but this 
I may advise : — to win the right to plead, 




ACT III. SC. 1. 


31V 


You should have set my innocent brother free, 

Then come to me. 

Becc. And would you then have listen’d ? 
May I then hope, dear lady, if I give 

Your brother to your arms again ?- 

Angel. Hope nothing, 
Messer Beccari, that is not in truth 
And reason. If indeed you use the power 
You seem now to avow, nay, if you keep 
Simply your proffer’d terms, and for the farm 
Pay down my brother’s ransom, then, sir, then, 

Come to his sister, and you shall receive 
All that a truly grateful heart can pay, 

My first of benefactors and my friend. 

Becc. And nothing more but this ? 

Angel. And nothing more : 

Since nothing more can be. What would you more? 
0 Ser Beccari! give again to.life 
My father’s son, and thou shalt be to me 
A second father! 

Becc. You mistake, Madonna; 

I am but one of Nine, and have no power 
To free your brother, though Heaven knows my wish 
Leans heartily that way. To purge him clear 
Of the strong charge of treason to the State, 

Nay more, to give him influence in the State, 

Build up his ruin’d fortunes, and his head, 

Which the axe threatens, lift as high as the best 
Of the Salimbeni, this was in my will. 





THE MONTANINI 


But the sole means to compass it you would not, 
Scorning my honest love. — 

Angel. 1 have said, Messere! 

In any way I will not listen that. 

Cease then to urge it. Not to build his fortune 
Thought I to accept your proffer’d aid, for that 
My brother would disdain from any man. 

He has offer’d you, upon your own urg’d terms, 

The estate in Strove. Was it ten days since 
A thousand florins worth, ’t is not less now. 

Bertuccio Arragucci counts it that. 

Take it, and for the urgence of our need 
Become our benefactor. Said I more ? 

Thou shalt be, truly shalt thou be, my friend, 

My second father. 

Becc. If the Ser Bertuccio, 

Your mother’s cousin, lends not, why should I, 

My risk is greater, brave the State’s suspect ? 

Lady, I am a merchant; I can give 
Nothing for nothing; and my profits vary 
According to the need which makes my ware 
Rise in the mart or fall. I would not be 
Your second father; I would rather be, 

That which your beauty and excelling virtue 
Make foremost of my wishes, your first spouse. 

Hear me then. — 

Angel. Barbara, come. The Ser Beccari 
Can as before alone find out his way. 

[Exeunt Angel, and Barb. 



ACT III. SC. 1. 


319 


Becc. Distraction! ’T is the same accursed pride 
Deep-set in both, though putting forth diversely, 
According to the soil wherein ’t is grown. 

I ’ll pluck it up by the roots, or I will die for’t! 

[turning to go. 


Enter Gianni. 

Gian. Well, you have seen at last Madonna Gelica. 

I hope you are satisfied, Messer Beccari ? 

You ’ve found she don’t like magistrates, I’m thinking. 
You’d best not come again, that’s my idea. 

And so, I ’ll show you out, if so you ’re done. 

Becc. Silence, old fool! And lead the way. I am done 
For the present — here. 

Gian. Come. [ leading off. ] Better an old fool, 
Than be a sinner at any age, I’m thinking. 

[Stops at the Exit , to give the advance to Becc. 

Exit Becc. 

And so you ’ll find one day — that’s my idea. 

[Exit Gianni. 



320 


THE MONTANINI 


Scene II. 

As in Act II. Scene I. 

Ippolito. Cornelia. Domicilla. 

Ippol. Now, Aunt Docilla, now, Cornelia dear. 

Ippolito lias told you all his fortunes 
By stream and horsepath, forest, dell, and hill, 

Since his prodigious absence of ten days, — 

And, ’sooth, it has seem’d wondrous long indeed, 

Parted from your dear loves ! — 

Cornel. 0 fi, Ippol’to ! 

Parted from our dear loves ? And is that all 

[looking at him archly. 

That weigh’d upon the sluggish wing of Time ? 

Domicil. And what beside should load the hours for him ? 

Thou dost injustice to thy brother’s love. 

Cornel. No, I do perfect justice to his love. 

Don’t I, Ippolito ? [same manner. 

Domicil. Child, don’t contradict. 

Thou interrupt’st him. Do as thou seest me. 

When I was young, a damsel would have blush’d 
To cut the thread short of her brother’s tale. 

But times are chang’d. 

Cornel. ’T is well they are, dear Aunt, 


ACT III. SC. 2. 


321 


Since it may do a pleasure to one’s brother 
To cut his thread off or make short his tale. 

I am sure I have done so now. 

Domicil. Gto on, my son. 

Don’t mind her: in her joy to have thee back, 

She talks a deal of nonsense. 

Ippol. Let her, Aunt! 

1 like it well: it helps digestion. Then, 

My thread was well nigh spent. I meant to say, 

ISTow L have made you merry with my journey 
And scenes abroad, lift you the curtain here, 

And show what’s new since I left Vito’s gate. 

Say thou, Cornelia. 

Cornel. Hast thou not then heard ? 

Ippol. Nothing that’s strange. Siena is, I take it, 

Not any sager being ten days older, 

But the same seething pot of faction still. 

The Devil can find none hotter, save what boils 
On our near neighbors’ fires ; Arezzo, Pisa, 

Florence, all help to keep each other little ; 

And so Italia’s states will do, I suppose, 

To the end of time, with foreign greater powers 
To egg them on, who find in their dissensions 
The means to keep them separate and thus weak. 

But Aunt, I see, don’t think me ten days wiser, 

Who’ve come back harping on the same old string. 

Come, what’s to tell, Cornelia ? Is it jocund ? 

Cornel. So Aunt thinks: but I say, ’t will make thee sad. 
Domicil. I say, ’t will not. Though, times are greatly chang’d 
14 * 



322 


THE MONTANINI 


Since I was young. 

Ippol. Not quite: tastes differ still. 

But let us hear. 

Cornel. Poor Carlo Montanino- 

Ippol. Not dead? 

Cornel. No, but condemn’d to die, within 

Five days, unless- 

Ippol. Good Heaven! what has he done ? 
Domicil. What might be thought of him: conspir’d, my child 
Against the State. 

Ippol. Conspir’d against the State ? 

What might be thought of him? Why, Aunt Docilla, 
Almost as soon I had thought it of myself! 

Cornel. There, Aunt! 

Ippol. Why surely, you would not rejoice 
To have him dead ? 

Domicil. Giesu forbid! But dead 
lie is not like to be : a thousand florins, 

Cost what they will, may sometime be replac’d; 

Never a head. 

Ippol. A thousand florins ? [in perplexity. 

Cornel. Aunt 

Is not quite right. The poor young man stands charg’d 
With leaguing to bring back the banish’d nobles. 

Domicil. And is n’t that the same ? Child, thou art rude ! 
Ippol. Not quite the same. I could not think him guilty 
Of plotting against his country ; but conspiring 
To unseat the powers that be is lighter guilt, 

And not unlikelv. 





ACT III. SC. 2. 


323 


Domicil. How thou talk’st, Ippol’to! 

Why, it is Carlo Montanino plotting 
The restoration of our deadliest foe, 

The puissant Tolomei! Hear’st thou that ? 

Ippol. Puissant enough : but he is weak, and humbled, 

Forget it not! through us. A thousand florins 
Will ruin him. 

Domicil. Is ’t my brother’s son that speaks? 

The blood of Massimino Salimbene- 

Ippol. Shed now two hundred years is all too dry 
To fructify mischief, if there lie one seed 
Of such in my breast for Carlo Montanino. 

Domicil. And thou canst pity him ! Times indeed are chang’d ! 
Ippol. The last male scion of an ancient house 
Reduc’d to poverty by his foresire’s fault! 

I would my foresires had no hand in it! 

He is a fine young fellow : I wish him well. 

Domicil. Thy father had not thought this. In my day- 

Ippol. In thy day, Aunt, my father’s self had shudder’d 
To tread upon a corpse. Was ’t not an ass 
That kick’d at the dead lion ? Wouldst thou have me 
Even such a brute ? thy pet Ippolito 
Whom thy dear lips have flatter’d into pride ? 

Domicil. No, no, my child! my boy ! But yet- 

Ippol. But yet, 

Even if this be prov’d- 

Cornel. It is not prov’d! 

They would not let him answer in defence! 

They hurried him to prison on the instant, 







324 


THE MONTANINI 


Doom’d to pay down the fine, or lose liis head. 

Ippol. The devil! Why this is tyranny unmask’d ! 

t 

Be this the way the Nine abuse the laws, 

I ’ll join, myself' to drive the monsters out. 

Domicil. Hush, hush ! don’t say it! thou ’rt mad ! 

Ippol. By Heaven, Aunt, 
I believe we all in Italy are mad! 

People against nobles, nobles ’gainst the people, 

Cities all striving to cut each other's throat, 

That foreign realms may rule us: all stark mad! 

And have been ever since the Roman fall. 

Is it so long since Dante Alighieri, 

A man, beyond all computation, worth 
Ten thousand Bondelmonti and Uberti, 

And whose great voice shall thunder through all time, 
Stirring the pulse of millions yet to be, 

In climes where not a syllable shall sound 
Of Salimbene’s name, dead on the page 
Of histories scarcely read, — unless some bard 
Should rake our ashes for a playhouse-theme 
And make them live an hour, — is’t many weeks 
Since Dante, by a faction driven abroad, 

Died mournfully in exile ? Where’s to end 

This tyranny of party ? this upstirring 

Of blood by brother’s blood ? I’m sick of it all. 

Thou look’st astonish’d, Aunt; but in thy ear 
I only tell thee what is hourly thought 
By some of our best men, and when the Nine 
Begin to totter, as they must ere long, 



ACT III. SC. 2. 


325 


Some ev’n of our own name will join the hunt, 

Not Piccolomini and Malavolti only, 

And, with the Tolomei, chase these wolves 
Out of Siena. 26 

Domicil. And with the Tolomei ? 

I never thought to see this day ! 

Ippol. Why not ? 

Interest makes stranger matches; and we have seen 
The White and Black change colors in Firenze. 

This tyrant body, detested by the people 

Whose guardians they profess to be, shall they 

Be lov’d by us of the better class, whose rights 

They have dash’d to shivers ? What they now have done 

To Carlo Morttanino they might do 

To me some day, were I as poor as he. 

Fancy me, Aunt, as desolate as he, 

Then wrong’d as he. Thou wouldst not praise the act? 

Domicil. 0 no, it was base! I do not love the Nine: 

They were not made in my day. But, my boy, 

* » 

Speak not so boldly ! These vile, upstart men, 

Have now the power. For my sake- 

Ippol. Well, I won’t. 

But do have charity for poor Montanino! 

And his sweet sister- [checlcs himself, while Cornelia , 

stepping behind her aunt , makes 
him a signal of caution. 

Domicil. Well, my love, I see, 

Thou and Cornelia still will contradict me , 

And so I ’ll leave you for some dumb affairs 





326 


THE MONTANINT 


That claim my overlooking, [i looking off the scene. 

Coming, Lisa. — 

I ’ll give thee such a meal! [going. 

Ippol. [detaining her. 

But season it, do, 

With charity for Carlo, and Angel' —[checking himself. 
And his young sister! 

Domicil. Ah! in my young day- 

Ippol. In thy young day, young fellows lov’d their aunts 
As well as they do now. At least, I’m sure, 

If they were such as thou art, Aunt Docilla, 

They must have lov’d them spite of all their whims 
Of olden days, [hugging her. 

Domicil. Ippol’to! Ippoltino ! 

[patting him on the cheek. 
Thou mak’st a fool of me. But in my day, 

When I was young, why surely then the times 
Were not the olden days. Well, well, I hope, 

The Montanino will deserve thy pity. 

I’m sure I wish tlie young man no great harm. 

[Exit. 

Cornel. Thou hast mollified her hugely, artful brother ! 

But had she got an inkling of thy love! 

Ippol. I had not car’d. She must ere long. 

Cornel. Have patience. 

Ippol. Now tell me of Angelica. How is she ? 

What does, where is, how looks she ? Speak, Cornelia 
Cornel. Were it a time to trifle, I would tease thee 
By the hour on those questions : that I would! 




ACT III. SC. 2. 


327 


I have seen her only twice. ’T was at the Duomo, 

At mass. Angelica look’d anxious, pale, 

But beautiful as usual, quite an angel, 

As thou and some more fools pretend to think her 
Only because her name imports as much. 

Ippol. Oh yes! But thou ’rt an angel too, Cornelia, 

Without the name. [ embracing her. 

Cornel. No, I’m the Roman matron : 

My jewel is my brother. Keep away ! 

[as he again hugs her. 

Ippol. Well said. One day the gem shall be reset. 

Cornel. Methought she look’d more lovely for her sorrow; 

So touching-sad, it almost made me weep. 

Ippol. Thou darling girl! [ embracing and kissing her repeatedly. 

Cornel. Nay, art thou getting mad ? 

Was Aunt then right, and wilt thou make thee gay 
Over thy enemy’s ruin ? So, one’s misfortune 
Makes others’ happiness. 

Ippol. No, rather, sister, 

’T is sunshine looking brighter for the clouds. 

Cornel. She goes to the prison daily, sometimes twice: 

The Signory puts no restraint on that. 

Now thou must know our Nello has a fancy 
For Monna Angela’s maid. — 

Ippol. Aha, my general! 

And so- 

Cornel. I learn what happens in poof Carlo’s cell. 

Ippol. Is it for Carlo’s sake ? Don’t blush, Cornelia! 

Cornel. I have no cause. It is for thine, believe me, 




328 


THE MONTANINI 


And pity only. 

Ippol. Yes, I do believe thee. 

But pity is a dangerous feeling too 
For a fine fellow in a woman’s heart, 

A heart at least like thine; and oft we end 
By loving what has cost us pains to cherish. 

Take care! 

Cornel. Nay, never fear: I will not throw 
My heart away, believe, without knowing where : 
One mad one in the family’s quite enough. 

Now Barbara and Nello do much better: 

They talk together, a;id quarrel I suppose. 

Ippol. Ay! ’t is well turn’d: but have a care, for all: 

When least we think to slip, then most we fall. 

Cornel. ’T is a fair rhyme. Thou hast had experience too. 
Ippol. ’T is rhyme with reason then ; and that will do. 
But oh, my light heart! jesting at this time ! 

What of the prison ? What keeps Carlo there ? 
Cornel. His friends refuse to aid him, in the dread 
Of being implicated. 

Ippol. Coward souls! 

How bitter-sharp the pang of such a wound! 

Cornel. One of our precious Signors, Ser Beccari, 

Had offer’d for his pretty farm in Strove 
A thousand florins. Now he will not give 
But seven hundred. 

Ippol. Oh the base-born cur! 

One of his father’s dogs had had more heart! 

What will the doom’d man do ? 



ACT III. SC. 2. 


329 


Cornel. He still defers, 
Though daily by his sister urg’d to sell. 

Ippol. And, so deferring, must embrace at last 
That hound Beccari’s insolent offer, and beg 
A loan of the rest, perhaps too late ! 

Cornel. My brother, 

I hope I have not done wrong. Through Antonello, 
I caus’d her maid to lay upon her table 
A hundred florins. — 

Ippol. Ah ! [taking her hand. 

And she received them, 

Knowing from whom ? 

Cornel. No, Barbara was true, 

I know from the result. Her lady thinks 
Bertuccio Arrigucci sent the gold. 

Ippol. Bertuccio Arrigucci would not give 
A single florin to save a score of lives! 

And never gave in the dark. — Go on. 

* Cornel. I had 

Two hundred left of my allowance, and thinking 
I but forestall’d thy wishes, yester eve, 

Ere the poor lady with her lonely maid 
Was come from their sad visit, closely veil’d 
I sought old Gianni, Montanino’s porter. — 

[ppol. Darling! [pressing the hand he stdl holds. 

But why thyself? 

Cornel. I could not trust 
Any but Nello; and he had been known. 

Angelica had forbidden, under pain 



330 


THE MONTANINI 


Of sure dismissal, her woman to receive 
Anything further from an unknown source. 

Ippol. Right! And old Grianni ?- 

Cornel. Hardly was persuaded, 

And put queer questions, scanning me all over 

As if he would remember me, and wanted 

To set his cross to some receipt. But finally 

His love for the house prevail’d, and shaking long 

His stubborn head, he took the “ partial aid 

From unknown friends.” Now brother, Carlo having 

Beccari’s offer, his ransom is complete. 

Ippol. [embracing tenderly his sister. 

How I do love thee ! 

Cornel. Is’t but now found out? 

Love me, Ippol’to, only half so well 
As Carlo is said to love his beauteous sister, 

I am the first of women. 

Ippol. I can but half, 

For half of my love already is that sister’s. 

Cornel. But half? That’s much for a lover! — Come away 
Aunt looks for us. 

Ippol. And time it is, I was rid 
Of all this dust. — I am happy and sad at once. 

My poor Angelica! But, ah dear Cornelia! 

His arm about her tenderly , they go up the stage , 

and Scene closes. 




ACT HI. SC. 3. 


331 


Scene III. 

% 

The Place of the Fountain , as in Act I. Sc. III. 
Beccari and Giacomo. 

Giac. Ay, but I say thou hast! cajol’d me vilely. 

I am no butcher: [Beccari scowls at him. 

for a thousand florins 
I had not perill’d young Montanino’s life. 

Thou mad'st me think it was to get the farm. 

Becc. And so it w r as. Why don’t he sell it then? 

I bid him fairly. 

Giac. Seven hundred florins! 

It is to ruin him. 

Becc. [coldly.] That is not my fault. 

Giac. Hast thou no bowels ? 

Becc. I have had for thee. 

Giac. No, by St. John! but for thy niggard self. 

Thou shalt not let the Montanino die. 

I will report thee. 

Becc. Wilt thou ? And thyself? 
Come, come, be less a fool. If for Camilla 
Thou hast no care, have some for thy own sake. * 
Report me ! me ! And if thy likely tale 


332 


THE MONTANINI 


Be credited, where wilt thou be ? Besides, 

I call upon thee then for reimbursement. 

Five hundred golden florins: mark thou that! 

And on the nail! five hundred golden Johns ! 28 
Now go, report me. [Exit. 

Giac. Cursed, cursed vice! 

To make me thus a villain’s senseless tool! 

Me, gentle born, an unresisting slave ! 

The blood of innocence is on my soul; 

And yet I dare not wipe it off. Dare not ? 

Let me but see. [pondering. 

Some other means- 0 devil I 

Devil of gaming. From the hell whereto 

Thou hast brought me, let me once but struggle out, 

Once breathe again the fresher wholesome air 
Of really human life ! - 

He has taken his hat off, in the heat and agitation of 
’ the moment , to wipe his brow , — at the words , “ Devil of 
gamingf striking passionately his forehead with his clenched 
fist , — and noio thrusts out his arm at its full 
length , the fist still folded , while, 
he walks rapidly to the 
right , when 

Enter from the right , with her pitcher, 

Barbara. 

She sees the movement. 

% 

Barb. Lord ! what’s the matter ? 

Why, Messer G-iacomo, thou ’rt rather worse 





ACT III. SC. 3. 


333 


Than Messer Gasparo was, an hour ago, 

Before ray lady. 

Giac. [starting. 

Hah! What ’s that of Gasparo ? 
Speak’st thou of Gasparo Beccari, dear ? 

[chucking her under the chin. 
Barb. Come, you are all alike, you naughty men! 

That ’s Messer Gasparo's way : he’s making love 
To everybody too, to me at once 
And to my lady ! 

Giac. And to thy lady too ? 

But that’s no wonder. Since he has a taste 
For such a tempting bit of flesh as thou, — 

And, ’faith, thou ’rt devilish pretty — [kissing her. 

Barb. Go away! 

Giac. And plump as a quail — [hugging her. She affects to be 

angry , and beats him, off. 

I say, I do not wonder 
He has an eye for thy mistress; ye are two 
Such buds of beauty, [again kissing her. 

Barb, [coquetting, to conceal her satisfaction 
Come now, that’s too good! 

Me and my mistress ! Why we ’re no more like 
Than pinks and sunflowers! 

Giac. Did I say, alike ? 

Now that’s the very thing; since, devil take me, 

I’d rather smell to a dainty pink like thee, [attempting to 

kiss her again. She coyly repels him. 

* 

Than gaze at any sunflower like thy lady. 



334 


THE MONTAOTNI 


Though, tastes will differ! Yet, I can’t believe 
Beccari ever did; thou ’rt such a puss! 

Barb. Am I indeed! And don’t you then believe ! 

Well, I can tell you, he offer’d her his fortune, 

And talk’d of passion like any other man. 

What though he’s of the Signory, is he not 
A man of bones and blood ? He try’d it hard, 

And offer’d to redeem my master’s life- 

Giac. Why dost thou stop ? 

Bart. Because I talk too fast. 

I had no right to tell you this. 

Giac. Ho right? 

#■ ■* 

A pretty girl like thee may tell a lover 

Just what she likes: it’s all between the two. 

Barb. Yes, but you ’re not my lover, Messer Giac’mo. 

Giac. A’n’t I! I have been any time six months. 

I ’ll prove it, an’ thou ’It let me. [arm about her. 

Barb. Get away! 

You ’re a Messere ; and you make such love 
As I don’t want. Besides, I don’t love you. 

Giac. Bah, now, that’s cruel! — Did Gasparo Beccari 
Offer to save thy master, for the hand 
Of Monna Angelica? I don’t believe it! Thou hast 
Misheard; this pretty ear’s too small, [toying with it. 
Barb. Let it alone ! it serves me well enough. 

Didn’t I hear him offer at her feet 
To lay his fortune, if she would lift it up, 

And him with it ? 

Giac. That was pretty. And what said she ? 




ACT III. SC. 3. 


335 


Barb. Said? We are Montanini. [affecting grandeur. 

Take up, she, 

m 

A butcher’s son, although he be a Signor! 

She walk’d away — we both of us walk’d away, 

And bade him find the door out for himself. 

There now. But — [ looking off, to the left. 

go away, you devil! — go ! — 

I must for my water. [ Goes up to the fountain. 

Giacomo turns off at the right, ex-claiming exultingly, but 
in a smother'd voice , and with clenched hand, 

Giac. Aha ! I have thee now! 

[Exit Giac., — while 


S> 


- Enter, simultaneously, from the left, 
• Antonello. 


Anton, [jerking Barb, by the elbow, while she affects to be busy 
dipping. 

Was n’t that Messer Gradenata, with thee ? 

Barb, [without turning. 

No, saucy! Say it was, what’s that to thee ? 

Anton. Much, if thou please; as little, an’ thou like. 

Barb, [raising her pitcher to her head. He does not offer to 
help her. 

I suppose I may speak to just what folk I choose. 

Anton. All’s one to Antonello ! [walking off whistling. 

Only then 




336 


THE MOJSTANINl 


Thou sha’n’t choose me. I should n’t like my wife 
To pick up such wild gentlemen, that’s all. 

Barb. [who has come forward — 

setting down the pitches' and crying. 

0 dear! 0 dear ! And never offer’d either 
To lift for me my brocca. 

Anton. [who has come backi] — Did n’t know 

Thou need’st it — put it on thyself, and down, 

As if’t was easy. Barba! Come, don’t cry : 

Folks ’ll be wondering. Kiss, and let’s forgive. 

Barb. I do not want to kiss and to forgive. 

There’s plenty of men to kiss without forgiving. 

Let me go, Nello : Monna Gelica ’s gone 
Alone to the prison: I must go after her: 

’T is time I went. 

✓ *• 

Anton. A kiss won’t take much time. 

Barb. I’ve had enough of kissing. 

Anton. Hast thou so ? 

Your humble servant, Donna Cfradenata! 

Monna Cornelia gets no news to-day. [Exit. 

Barb. [looks after him a moment in surprise , drying her tears. 
Then calling. 

Nello! — Anto ! — No, I won’t, won’t call him ! 

He ought to know I love him, and don’t love 

That saucy gentleman. But I ’ll plague his heart out! 

It’s a pretty thing a body can’t have eyes 
And use them handsomely, without being huff’d ! 

Won’t he come back ? [ looking anxiously to the left. 

0 dear ! 0 dear ! I ’Jl go 






ACT III. SC. 4. 


337 


Straight home and cry them out. I— No, I won’t! 
He sha’n’t see that I mind him, if I burst. 

Takes up the vessel again and Exit, looking 
back and wiping her eyes. 


Scene IV. 

The Prison. 

Carlo. Angelica. 

Carlo. And now, dear Angela, for this happy news. 

Angel. Thou know’st I told thee of the hundred florins. — 
Carlo. Who can it be ? Bertuccio, after all ? 

Angel. I went to him. He color’d, but said nothing, 

And steadily refus’d to take them back. 

Last night I found two hundred more, which Gianni 
Had been seduc’d to receive as partial aid 
From friends unknown (’t was thus the message ran.) 
A lady closely veil’d, of noble form, 

And seeming young, and of most gentle speech, 

Deliver’d it, so he said. 

Vol. IV.—15 











338 


THE MONTANINI 


Carlo. Perhaps Rugiero, 

Bertuccio’s son’s, young wife. She’s of the blood, 
Thou knowest, of Sozzo Dei. 

Angel. Jt might well be: 
But Gianni’s prying eyes had found her out. 

Some noble friend, more likely, of our cousin's, 
Whom he has chosen to mask his generous deed. 
Carlo. ’T was nobly done. I can forgive-his fears. 
Angel. And now then, Carlo, thou canst leave this den. 
Take Ser Beccari’s offer. For Bertuccio, 

We can repay him at our leisure. 

Carlo. How? 

By utter ruin. Angelica, hear me. No! 

I will not so abuse my sacred trust. 

When our dead parents left thee in my hands, 

My dearest treasure, as my only joy, 

They did not mean, our father could not think, 

I should so far forget my honor and them 
As for a selfish end, in any way, 

To lessen the slender means their woes had left 
To keep thee in the state where thou wast born. 

’T is little enough as’t is, Heaven knows, to save 
That sweet head from depression, and that heart 
From disappointment and the natural pang 
Of wounded pride. I will not make it less. 

Sell we the farm, the money paid the State, 

The palace must be set to public sale. 

Forc’d on the mart, ’t is little it will bring. 
Bertuccio takes three hundred, and the rest 



ACT III. SC. 4. 


339 


To what land will it bear us ? Stript of rank, 

An exile from thy father’s home, reduc’d 
To a mere competence or vulgar toil, 

Is this the love I promis’d, this the care 

Our mother gave thee to ? Thou shalt not suffer, 

Angelica, for my fault. 

Angel. ’T is not thy fault; 

’T is Heaven’s high will. What matters where we dwell? 
Art thou not with me ? Am I not with thee ? 

Come, Carlo ! come, my brother! come, my love ! 

Is there a place beneath the broad blue Heaven 
Shall not be Paradise, so thou art there ? 

Is all Siena aught, while thou art here ? 

Carlo. 0 my soul’s life! — But say not, Heaven’s will: 

Heaven wills not crime. — I have not told thee. Pon¬ 
dering, 

In my lone hours, these twelve days’ dismal past, 

It struck me that that bold bad man Beccari, 

Having set his heart upon our pretty farm, 

Plotted this charge, to force me to his terms. 

Why start’st thou, and turn’st pale ? So think’st thou too ? 
Speak, my heart’s darling ! 

Angel. So I thought but then. 

I-- 

Carlo. What hast thou ? Thou castest down thine eyes. 
There is some secret cause why thou so think’st. 

Angel. Brother, I meant not to distress thee. Therefore only 
I would not speak. Be calm. The Ser Beccari 
Offer’d this day to give thee back to freedom 










340 


THE MONTANIISn 


So I would — yield to him my maiden hand. 

Carlo stands for a moment as if thunderstruck — 
Angelica gazing on him silently with a 
look of awe. Then: 

Carlo. This passes all the woes that I have borne. 

Another , hut briefer pause. 

Lifting solemnly his hands :] 

God, who o’errulest all! canst thou look down 
And see this villain triumph, and his victims, 

His innocent victims stretch their hands in vain ? 
He pauses again briefly , looking earnestly on his 
sister. Then , solemnly , taking her hand * 

Angelica, thou canst not ask me now 
To traffic with that man on any terms; 

Hot did he offer me ten thousand down! 

I am resolv’d. I will not sell the farm. 

It is my duty; and for thy dear sake 
Gladly I render up a useless life. 

Thou ’It find with good Bertuccio an asylum. 

This he may yield thee easily without fear 

Of implication. Nor for aught beside 

Shalt thou be owing. The palace and the farm ' 

Will be for thee a dower- 

Angel. Stop, Carlo, stop! 

Hast.thou but thought of me, without thyself, 

• As if I could be separated ? No ! 

If thou wilt die — I too am ready, I. 




ACT III. SC. 4. 


341 


The axe indeed will not destroy my life; 

But- 

Carlo. [ pressing her closely to his breast. 

Sister! — dearest sister! — Peace! 0 peace! 

Do not speak thus! I yet will think of means. 

Yet there is hope ; yet, yet. Has not Bertuccio 
Provided secretly thus much ? Perchance 
He will advance the rest a similar way, 

And save that sacrifice, which for thy sake, 

Thine only, have I shunn’d. — Dry up thy tears — 

[kissing them from her eyes. 
Where now is Barbara? The night comes on. 

Angel. I bade her come for me, and wait without. 

Carlo. Adieu, now.. 

[He taps at the door, ivhich is opened as before. 
Waits the girl there ? 

Jailer, [at the sill.] Yes, Messere. 

Angel, [embracing Carlo passionately — and with broken voice. 
Adieu, my brother! — Wilt thou ? — 

Carlo, [kissing her on the forehead.] Yes, hope, hope. 

[Exit Angel, and door closes. 

Hope ? And when hope is gone, which now fast lessens, 
Like the red light of the descended sun, 

What then ? Shall I bring down that angel nature 
Unto a mean condition, to save a life 
Which has so little pleasure, and, her except, 

JSTo real tie ? She will die with me ? So 
She firmly thinks; but her high moral sense 
And trust in God assure her from self-murder, 






342 


THE MONTAHTNI 


And the rack’d heart is tougher than she thinks. 
And better it is she should remember me 
With sorrow and sad love, than see through me 
Her scanty means of life made scantier still 
To extend my weary being. Yes! it shall cease. 
Forgive me, Heaven, the sin of this deceit ) 

The sole, I hope, has ever stain’d these lips! 

He leans against the side-scene, 
as if looking sadly on the fading twilight , and 


Scene closes. 



ACT IV. SC. 1. 


343 


Act the Fourth 
Scene I. As in Act I. Sc. II. 

Giacomo. Camilla. 

Giac. Thou hast the story now. Why art thou dumb ? 

Did I not tell thee, Gasparo would jilt thee ? 

Camil. [with deep expression. 

He has not done it, though. 

Giac. No, by St. Paul! 

And shall not! I have that will bring him straight, 
Were he bent twice as crooked as he is. 

Camil. Thou ? What hast thou to do with it ? Mind thou, 
Wilt thou, thy own affairs. 

Giac. I have. Beccari, 

If he would make a fool of thee, has made 
A- Hum ! — 

Camil. A rogue of thee, thou mean’st. 

Giac. Thou art, 

Deuse take thee! a shrewd guesser; but thy thoughts 
Go not to the depth of this affair. 

Camil. What then 
Has Gasparo done to thee? 

Giac. To me done nothing — 

More than to thee; he has made of me a fool. 








344 


THE MONTANINI 


But through me has done — what, by St. Paul! 


He shall undo, if it should cost me- [checks himself. 


Camil. [after regarding him 


fixedly a moment.'] Come! 


Giacomo dear, dost think Camilla blind, 

Because she can be dumb at times ? Thou ’rt seldom 



Cheerful or complaisant- 

Giac. Don’t mince it; say 
I am moody and harsh-spoken; and I am. 


God knows I have cause ! My cursed luck 


What 


then ? 


Camil. These three days past, thou hast been much more than 
moody, 

Savage in thy moroseness; thy fierce eyes, 

Sullen and bloodshot, dart at times strange fire, 

And thy clench’d hands keep motion with thy lips, 

Which fold on one another as thy teeth 
Gnash in thy passion, and thy lowering brows 

Are knit together. Often too by night- 

Giac. Wilt thou have done ? curse on thee ! Are my veins 
Swollen with water, that I should know thy wrongs, 

And feel I am too far bounden to Beccari 
To dare resent them; am I less, I say, 

Or more than man that I should brook this insult, 

And not be tortur’d ? 

Camil. Am I less than woman, 

That I may not be trusted to avenge 
My own hurt pride ? If’t is not water swells 
Thy veins, good brother, mine are not of milk. 


I 










ACT IV. SC. 1. 


345 


The same blood boils beneath my softer skin 
As flushes thine j and, credit me, my nerves 
Give quite as keen perception. So, I say, 

’T is not alone my wrongs, but something more 
Rouses the tiger of thy savage mood. 

“ Done through thee ? — what he shall undo ? ” 

What’s that ? 

Let the beast sleep again, or make me know, 

Who was whelp’d with thee, what the blood thou snuff’st 
In the tainted air ? 

Gicic. [with his usual scoffing laugh. 

Thy metaphors are choice. 

It is the tiger, is it not, that lurks 

For innocent blood ? Curse on the knave Beccari! 

He takes a step or two , to an<ffro , 

Camilla watching him steadily from under her brows. 
I ’ll tell thee thus much. Messer Provenzano 
Salvani, who, some fifty years ago, 

Was Governor in Siena, and himself 

Did much what Messer Gasparo Beccari 

As a ninth part of the government now would do, 

Being told by the Devil his head should be the highest 
Of all the host at the battle of Yaldelsa, 

# Thought he should conquer, and- Thou hast heard 

the tale. 

Camil. The Florentines cut off his head and bore it 

On a lance’s point over all the field . 27 What next ? 

Giac. Where is thy “keen perception ? ” ’T is the Devil 

Dupes the ninth fraction of the government now. 

15 * 









346 


THE MONTANINI 


He may give his head for another’s : that is all. 

Camil. Thou hast said enough to damn thee, brother Giacomo, 
Say’st thou not more. Say on. 

Giac. Could I but trust thee! 

0 ! it were such relief to uncloak this secret 
Which gnaws into my vitals ! to obtain 
The assistanee of thy cunning to o’erreach him, 

And save the innocent blood! 

Camil. The innocent blood ? 

Has he then tempted thee to do a murder ? 

Or does it through thee ? 

Giacomo walks apart , with signs of violent emotion. 

* 

— But it is thy secret. 

Thou need’st not tell it. I have heard enough. 

Only- [affecting to go. 

Giac. ’T is better to tell all, or none : 

This thou wouldst say. ’T is right. Camilla, stop ! 

Time presses: what I would do, must be done 
On the instant. [Pauses and grasps her hand. 

Messer Carlo Montanino- 

Giacomo stops. Camilla, gazing a moment on 
his working features , suddenly flings off his 

% 

hand with horror. 

Camil. — This day must suffer on an unprov’d charge. 

I see it all! Wast thou the accursed wretch 
That swore away his innocent life? For what? 

That from his ruin the fiend of Hell, Beccari, 





ACT IV. SC. 1. 


347 


Might put another in thy sister’s place ? 

Was it for money thou didst it ? Doubly Judas 1 
Go buy a cord, and hang thyself: thou art not 
Fit to live. [ Goes up the stage towards the door. 

Giac. Camilla! — Woman! — Stop ! 28 
Think’st thou to carry it thus ? My heart’s as strong, 
Or stronger than thy own ; my will shall be 
Quite as imperious, if thou mak’st me use 
The rights I have by nature and by justice. 

Justice, I say. What! darest thou to believe 
I sold the Montanino’s blood ? First, hear me ; 

Then play the tyrant. The hell-knave, Beccari, 

Made me to think it was but Carlo’s farm 
He coveted, and, pandering to my wants, 

Craftily brib’d me to that step should force him 
To sell’t. I had no thought — thou shalt not think it! 
To put his life in peril. And now I go 
To save it at the peril of my own. 

Camil. Stop thou in turn. This is all true ? 

Giac. By Heaven ! 

Tak’st thou me for a villain unredeem’d, 

Like thy dainn’d*suitor, because I have given my soul 
To the hell-lust of gaming? Thou shalt see. 

[again turning to go. 

Camil. What w ilt thou do ? 

Giac. Go straightway to the tempter, 
And force him on the instant pay the fine, 

Or at once hand him over, and myself, 

To the tribunal. 






348 


THE MONTANINI 


Camil. And thus ruin both. — 

What dost thou owe him ? 

Giac. Five hundred florins. 

Camil. The wretch 1 

He had set his heart indeed upon’t, to bribe 
So largely. 

Giac. ’T is my debt entire. 

Camil. No matter 

How vilely't was incurr’d, thou ow’st it; he 
His hand to me. Accuse him, and thou losest 

Thy sister’s husband, and thyself must pay- 

How wilt thou pay it ? 

Giac. 0 devil! there’s the chain 
Has bound me to his enginery ! 

Camil. I ’ll file it, 

And with the servant set the victim free. 

Giac. Servant? Thou’rt bitter! Let it pass. But him ! 
How wilt thou do it? 

Camil. Leave that to me. Enough, 

Thou hast my word. I ’ll do it. 

Giac. But on the instant! 

Goes the sun down, the penalty unpaid- 

There’s but an hour now left! 

Camil. It is enough : 

Gasparo will be here within ten minutes. 

Giac. And thou wilt save young Montanino ? Swear it! 
Camil. I swear it by high Heaven! He shall not die. 

Giac. [exultingly. 

He shall not die ! — But work thou well, and quickly. 









ACT IV. SC. 1. 


349 


1 go to the Place, to wait the fatal hour. 

If the bell toll and Carlo be led forth, 

I ’ll shout my guilt in public, and the axe, 

If fall it must, shall fall on me, not him. 

Camil . It shall not need: nor his blood, nor thy own 
Shall fleck the sand. I swear it! Go in peace. 

Giac. 0 what a load is off my breast! I breathe. 

I do not smell of blood now. Let me hug thee. 

’T is the first time I’ve done it since I was man. 

He shall not die ! Thou 'It save him ! Thou wilt save him ! 

[Exit Giac. 

Camilla looks after him thoughtfully a rgoment , then , 
with broivs knitted and hands clenched: 

Camil. Yes, I will save him. But not as thou dost think. 

I ’ll save him by the law. This villain Gasparo 
Shall not wrong me. — My brother is involv’d. 

What then ? Shall I be balk’d of my revenge ? 

Shall Justice too be thwarted in her right 
Because of kin ? He has sown: so let him reap. 

It shall avail to mitigate his punishment 
That he has sought to save the Montanino, 

And had no thought to bring him unto death. 

[ Goes rapidly up to the door , 


and Scene closes. 




350 


THE MONTANINI. 


Scene II. 

In the Palazzo Salimbeni. 

Ippolito's Cabinet. 

Ippolito before a table on which stands a 
casket, apparently of oak, richly 
carved in half-relief 

. Ippol. The hour approaches. There is left no time 

To think what should be, or of other plans 

Might stead him better, were there only time 
* 

To shape and weigh them. It is wondrous strange 
Angelica’s brother should set less by life 
Than fortune. Young, and capable, with life, 

He might redeem it; but-Why ! none but fools, 

drown desperate, fling away both end and means, 

And, in a sort of childish spite with fortune, 

Will none of life because they cannot hold it 
On their own terms! He is no wayward child, 

Ho moody lack-brain. They who know him best 
Make him high-minded, resolute, severe, 

With an exalted fancy that exaggerates 
The claims of love and duty, and a sense 
Of honor like a Roman’s of old time, 

Ere Rome was yet an Emperor’s or a Pope’s. 

He has some serious aim. His known devotion 
To his young sister, — and even fQr that my heart, 

For that, yearns towards him- Ay ! it must be so ! 




ACT IV. SC. 2. 


351 


He means upon the altar of his love 

To offer his young life ! Thou self-bound Isaac 1 

There shall not want a ram to take thy place ! 

These idle ducats- 

About to open the casket , pauses , and 
turns round again. 

But what will he think ? 

What will the world think ? Think I mean to shame him, 
Bound with the fetters of a twofold debt, 

Of money and life, to his ancestral foe. 

Or haply- No ! that were a villain’s thought, 

Not Montanino’s. No! Think what he will, 

He shall not think me heartless, as his friends 

And mother’s kin have prov’d. And thou, Angelica!- 

Unlocks and proceeds to open the casket 
as Scene closes. 


/ 






352 


THE MONTANINI 


Scene III. 

The Prison. 

Carlo. Angelica. 

Barbara near the door. 

Angel. No hope! no hope ! The hour draws nigh! My brother! 
My brother, on my knees, [ kneeling and embracing his knees. 

I pray have pity, 

Have pity on thyself alike and me. 

Carlo. [endeavoring to raise her. 

It is, Angelica, that I have pity, 

Have pity on myself alike and thee, 

I am thus stubborn. Wouldst thou have me live 
To see thee less than Nature made thee be, 

And Heaven ordain’d ? 

Angel. I never shall be less, 

Be what I may, than Heaven did ordain. 

Has thou not heard, that to the fleeceless lamb 
The wind is temper’d? 

Carlo. But the shepherd sees 
A murrain thin his flock, nor does the wolf 
Flesh his sharp tooth the less because his prey 
Is undefended. In Bertuccio’s fold, 

Thy guarded fleece will keep its silky flocks 
Safe from the wayside briers of the world. 

Rise up, fair lamb. 


_ 




ACT IV. SC. 3. 


353 


Angel. No; here I rest. Is this, 

Carlo, is this thy promise ? Thou didst say 
Thou ’dst think of other means. Thou bad’st me hope. 
Thou mad’st me think thou ’dst seek for other aid 
From good Bertuccio. But for this, myself, 

Myself had sought it, begg’d it on my knees. 

Carlo. And begg’d in vain. 

Angel. As I do now — for mercy ; 

For mercy, cruel Carlo, for myself, 

From thee, my only brother, who I thought 
Once lov’d me only. 

Carlo. Once ? Once lov’d thee ? Once ? 
Is my blood — must I say it ? — which I pour 

Freely- O never pagan priest yet pour’d 

From the bound victim’s veins a freer stream, 

Than that I scatter gladly from my own 

For thy sole sake!- 

Angel. It is not thy own blood ; 

It is our father’s. In thy single stem 
Flows all the sap of our three-hundred years. 

What right hast thou to let it out at once, 

And raze the Montanino to the ground? 

Last scion of the parent tree, stand up, 

« 

And wave thy yet green boughs, and blossom still, 

As God commands! 

Carlo. Angelica ! cease ! cease ! 

Make not what I deem’d virtue seem a crime: 

Call not our father’s spirit to the block ; 

Name me not parricide of all my race. 





354 


THE M0NTANIN1 


Thou art my sister, and shouldst smooth that way 
I thought to tread so lightly, and must tread. 

’T is now too late. See there ! [ pointing off the scene as to 

the setting sun. 

Angel. ’T is not too late ! [ start¬ 
ing to her feet. 

Let me go, brother ! Do not hold me! 

Carlo. Go? 

Whither? Before tliou reach- Suddenly Yes, go; 

go quickly. [ kissing her passionately , and straining 

her in his embrace. 

Angel. [takes both his hands in hers : and looking him steadily 
in the face , and with solemnity. 

Carlo, my brother, thou hast deceiv’d me once: 

’T was the sole falsehood ever stain’d thy lips. 

Thou mean’st to spare me now the final pang, 

And have no parting. Is it so ? 

The bolts of the door are heard to be withdrawn. 

What’s that ? [ wildly. 

They are come ! they are come to fetch thee ! 0 my God! 

hanging on him with both arms — but her eyes 
straining fixed upon the door , 

which opens , and 

Enter, unattended, the Captain of the Guard. 

Barbara comes forward. 

Capt. It is my happiness to inform Messere, 

The penalty is paid, and he is free. 









ACT IV. SC. 3. 


355 


Angelica, relaxing her hold, 
falls without a sound into the arms of Barbara. 

Carlo. By whom ? Who is it ? 

Capt. I know not. This is all. 

[pointing to the warrant 
which he holds open. 

Carlo. Bertuccio! How shall we ?- Angelica! [turning 

rapidly. 
Hear’st thou ? 

Capt. Messer', she has fainted from excess of joy. 


Carlo takes Angelica in his arms. 

Barbara goes hastily to a water-jug which stands on a table in 
the background, and is seen coming forward with it, — 
the Jailer advancing a step into the cell, and the Captain 
standing by Angelica’s feet with a look of respectful 
sympathy, — os 


the Drop falls. 


\ 






356 


THE MONTANINI 




Act the Fifth 
Scene I. As in Act I. Scene IV. 

Carlo. Angelica. 

Barbara — in the act of leaving: 

Angelica looking towards her , as waiting her departure ; 
Carlo, with arms folded and eyes on the ground. — Exit Barbara. 

Angel. And now, my brother. [ Carlo takes her hand and gazes 

earnestly and mournfully in her face. 

But thou seem’st not glad. 

* Carlo, [after a moment's silence — still gazing on her. 

No, I am sore oppress’d. Though free, I am bound; 
Bounden forever, save thou loose the chain. 

Angel. What canst thou mean ? How deadly pale thou look’st! 
Carlo. It is my desperate purpose makes me pale, 

And the long pang it cost me to resolve. 

Angel. I heard thee pace thy chamber to and fro, 

And wonder’d, Carlo, what should make thee linger, 
Knowing my longing to receive thy news. 

Carlo. And when thou hear’st it!- 

[He pauses and again looks her gravely in the face. 
Angel. Hast thou seen him ? 

Carlo. Whom ? 

Angel. Our cousin, surely. Was’t not Arrigucci 








ACT V. SC. 1. 


357 


Thou went’st to see ? thy saviour, Carlo — mine ? 

Carlo. Would that he were ! I were then less perplex’d. 

I saw him not. There was no need. Last night, 

When Arrigucci came not, though I felt 
’T was modesty perhaps that kept him back 
When others wish’d me joy, who was the source 
Of our great happiness, or fear again 
To be committed with the tyrannous Nine, 

Yet — thou hast heard me say — my mind misgave me, 
And better seem’d it me to wait till morn, 

Till the fisc open’d, to learn who really was 
My generous liberator. — 

♦ Angel. \who has .listen'd full of wonderment, 

now eagerly. 

And thou hast learn’d ? 

Carlo. [Ats eyes still fixed on Angel. 

The Chancellor told me Salimbene’s self, 

Ippolito Salimbene paid the fine, 

With his own hand. Why how thou pal’st, my sister! 
And now, thy face is burning! while thine eyes 
Gleam satisfaction through their tears! 

[Angel, throws herself on his neck and hides her confusion. 

Is’t so ? 

Wouldst thou then rather it were Salimbene 
* 

Than Arrigucci ? 

Angel. [lifting her head instantly. 

No, no, Carlo, no ! 

Rather ’t were almost any one than he. 

* 

Carlo. And so would I. 



358 


THE MONTANINI 


Angel. Yet’t was a noble act. 

Carlo. Ay, truly so ! My enemy did for me 

What none of my friends would do; the heir of those 
Who spent my father’s race, lifts up from death 
The last male scion of that hated stock, 

Which, dead in me, would never more put forth 
Or fruit or flower to bear the hostile name. 

’T would wash him snow-white, were he spotted o’er 
With twice two centuries of my foresires’ blood ! 

[Angel, holes admiringly through her tears. 
How well that dew becomes thee ! Dry it not; 

Such Heaven sprinkles on its angels’ eyes 

When they applaud in silence good men’s deeds; * 

And such is Salimbene. 0 my sister ! 

I fear thou wilt shed other tears anon, 

Bitter as these are sweet. 

Angel. What’s on thy heart ? 

Carlo. The weight of obligation, which makes dull 
Its glad pulsations. How shall we repay him ? 

Angel. With our life’s service. 

Carlo. Even so I mean : 

And that in earnest, [with same expression — regarding 

her fixedly. 

Art thou then prepar’d 
To be his servitor, as I shall be ? 

Angel. What means that emphasis ? Why that fixed look ? 
Speak out thy purpose, brother. 

Carlo. Salimbene 

* 

Loves thee, my sister. — Over all thy face 





ACT V. SC. 1. 


359 


The rose supplants the lily. ’T is the hue 
Not of displeasure, Angela; and my heart 
Trembles to feel the sacrifice it makes 
May be to thee too easy. 

Angel. What is that ? 

Why shouldst thou think that Salimbene- 

[ embarrassed .] Why, 

Why with imputed selfishness of thought 
Stain his brave action ? 

Carlo. ’T is not to be selfish 
To owe the impulsion to a generous deed 
To some deep-cherish’d feeling. No base love 
Prompts to great action, and an enemy’s life 
Sav’d to win favor in the sister’s heart 
Is still high inspiration. Salimbene 
Loves thee, Angelica, and for thee alone 
Has done thus bravely. ’T is with thee alone 
I can repay him. 

Angel. Carlo ! — Dost thou think ?- 

Carlo. Of the wide gulf which Fortune spreads between 
Our state and his ? I do. But for that gulf 
I were not now his debtor for my life. 

Well do I know’t is not for me to offer 
What, were we even equals, he should beg. 

’T is not thy hand, my sister. Said I not 
We are his slaves? And slaves are handed over 
Without condition. 

Angel. Speak not so dejectly. 

And speak less darkly, brother. I but feel 







360 


THE MONTANINI 


Thou hast some solemn purpose, whose sad thought 
I read in thy pale visage and chang’d eye, 

But cannot give it shape. 

Carlo. I would thou couldst! 

So were I spar’d some anguish. 

Angel. 0 my heart! 

What canst thou mean then ? 

Carlo. Part we with our all, 
Thou wouldst be there wherefrom to rescue thee 
I would have given my life, would give it still. 

But, could I do this, should I have the right, 

For Salimbene’s sake ? , • 

Angel. No, Carlo, no! 

’T would seem like flinging back the hand he tenders 
In amity, it may be in atonement 
Of our ancestral wrongs. 

Carlo. I think not so: 

The wrong was what our sires had done to his, 

Had they been strong enough. Still, thus to act 

Would seem indeed like o’erstrain’d pride, or rancor. 

We cannot so repay him. I must give 

That which alone he covets, my sole treasure. 

It is thyself, my sister, and, alas! 

Without condition. 

Angel. Thou dost mean ? 

Carlo His slave. 

/ 

To make my sister too his handmaid. 

Angel. Never! 

’T is not my brother ! not my father’s son! 



ACT y. SC. 1. 


361 


Not Carlo Montanino, speaks! 

Carlo, [mournfully] Angelica, 

Look on me. Need I ?- 

Angel, [who has gone from him a step 
indignantly , returning and throwing herself 
weeping , on his neck. 

No! remind me not! 

Thou wouldst have given thy life for me. And now, 
Wouldst thou make vile and cast away forever 
What was so precious ? Sorrow, and anxious thought, 
And prison-solitude, have made thee wild. 

Thou wilt sleep over this, and waken calmer. 

Carlo. I have slept over it, and I am calm. — 

Listen, my sister, — precious to me now 
More than thou ever wast, if love like mine 
Admit of increase. We had thought it much, 

Had Arrigucci privily lent us aid. 

But Salimbene, openly and bravely 
Like a true man, and in the cause of right, 

Exerts his sympathy, and defies the Nine, 

Scorning their verdict. We had ow’d him much, 

Had he through others but spent on us that sum. 

But thus to take me boldly by the hand 
As though I were a brother, to lift me up 
When others durst not look on me, to give me 
The life that but for him were gone forever, 

This noble friend, this more to me than brother, 

This re-creator, what then shall repay him ? 

Angel. Carlo! my brother! 

Yon. IY.—16 




362 


THE MONTANINI 


Carlo. —Not my life alone. 

That were not to give all I have, not give 
What is most precious in his eyes, and mine. 

But if I bid him take that for which only 

Life to me is worth living- 

Angel. Brother! brother! 

Son of my father! who art in his place, — 

[sinking on her knees before him. 

Give not to infamy thy orphan charge ! 

Sell all thou hast, let us be poor and outcast. 

I can even serve, if needful; but not here — 

Not him — not Salimbene ! 

Carlo. Be’t as thou wilt. 

One way remains: it cancels not our debts, 

But makes us not to feel them. Rise, my sister. 

[endeavoring to raise her. 

Angel. Carlo ! wouldst break my heart? 

Carlo. Oh Salimbene! 
Hadst thou but loiter’d in thv work of love 

V 

All were now over, by a death that seem’d 
Noble as martyrdom ! but now no thought 
Of sacrifice for duty lifts the soul, 

And death’s sharp agony will have tenfold horror 
In that ’tis but the severance from shame! 

Angel. Death ! And is that thy meaning ? 

- rf arlo. And what else 
Will lift from me the load I cannot bear ? 

Angel, [rising quickly. 

Then let us die together. Better thus 




ACT V. SC. 1. 


363 


Than live the death of infamy. Salimbene, 

Bequeath’d our heritage, will be more than paid. 

Carlo. Of infamy, sister? Hast thou then believ’d 

That such I offer’d? I ? to thee? Thou heard’st me: 
Never base love yet prompted generous deed ; 

And such was Salimbene’s. When in anguish 
To be so fetter’d, knowing no escape 
Save death from obligation, the dread thought 
Flash’d like the thunder through my prison’d soul, 

To give for all he had given the all I had — 

All he could value, — when this lurid light 
Burst on the darkness of my spirit and shook me 
With fears that made my very flesh to creep 
With a cold shivering, — though it show’d the way 
To instant freedom, I had shut my eyes 
Sitting still fetter’d, had not reason show’d 
My fears were idle, and call’d the warm glow back 
To my chill’d skin. It was a mortal ague, [ shuddering . 
But it is over; though I still am pale. 

Angel. Ay, deadly pa^e, my brother; and should be. 

Fi on this madness ! It is such: no reason 
Counsels dishonor; and that wholesome terror 
That made thy man’s-pulse throb, and thy warm blood 
That is so valiant chilly, trust it! ’t was 
The appeal of God, thy conscience ; trust it, Carlo ! 

Carlo. Thou wilt not hear me. I would say : — I thought, 
And reason’d with my terror; and my blood 
Ban free again. For well I grew assur’d 
That Salimbene would but do as I 



364 


THE MONTANINI 


In a like case, and rather make addition 
Unto his noble act, than dim its splendor 
By even thought of evil. 

Angel. Then to offer 
"Were but deceit. 0 Carlo, be thyself! 

Let not misfortune warp thy simple faith! 

Carlo. It has not, sister. When I give thee up, 

My sole possession that has any worth 
In Salimbene’s eyes, my all in mine, 

The sacrifice is perfect and sincere. 

The sense that he will not misuse the gift, 

The knowledge that his nature cannot be 
Both mean and generous, noble and debas’d, 

Strip it of all its terror and half its pain, 

But leave the act still thorough. Thou art his 
Without condition, subject to his will. 

Angel, [once more falling at his feet. 

Thou wilt not do it! Thou art still my brother! 

Thou wilt not soil our father’s fame, and mine. 

0 say thou wilt not! * 

Carlo. Not in any way. 

Nor give thee up against thy will. Be tranquil: 

My debt shall rest unpaid. [Raises her. 

* 

Angel. But then ? — But then ?— 
Thou dost not mean ?- Thou wilt — do nothing des¬ 

perate ? 

She holds both his hands in hers. — He releases one , 
and lays it on her shoulder. 

Carlo. Angelica, were my simple service, vow’d 




•% 


ACT y. SC. 1. 

For life to my life’s creditor, enough, 

Or could I earn by any kind of work 
Sufficient to repay him, it were well. 

But there is no resource for me in toil, 

And my sole servitude would be disclaim’d, 

And, offer’d solely, seem a mere pretence, 

So certain its rejection. Shall I then 
Skulk in the noontide by my enemy’s door, 

Or cower when we meet, his hopeless debtor ? 

My days are melancholy now enough, 

With even thy sunshine over me ; but then ! 

In the bleak shadow of a fix’d despair, 

Dead to myself and thee ! I should go mad. 

Would that the axe had fallen in time ! 

Angel. Hush ! hush ! 

Thou wouldst have given thy life for me : not now 
Through me shall that dear life be darken’d over, 

By even a passing shadow of despair. 

With Heaven to aid me, I will do thy bidding. 

Carlo. Ho, no, not mine ! not mine ! Do thy own will. 
Angel. And that shall be thy bidding, — ever, Carlo, 
v Is sacrifice for thee alone ? Shall I 

Hot there too be thy sister ? That poor station 
Thou wouldst have steadied with thy corpse, I now, 
To keep thee living, step from, and — Oh God ! 

Must it so be, will peril even maiden fame. 

Carlo. Think not so meanly of our generous saviour. 

Thou wilt see, Angela, all will yet be well. 

Angel. I hope so: yet I fear. Should he — abuse 


t 


365 



366 


THE MONTANINI 


The gift which-Hark! I will not live. 

Carlo. Nor I. 

i 

We both will go down to our father’s tomb. 

And better so, if Salimbene’s soul 
Can so defile itself: this world is then 
Hot worth the living in, and thou and I 
Were better out of it. — But think on this. 
To-morrow- 

Angel. No, no ! take me now, at once. 

Give not a moment! for — I dare not think. 

Falls on his neck. He presses her soothingly to his breast. 

Scene closes. 


Scene II. 

f 

Same as in Act II. Scene I. 

\ 

Ippolito. Cornelia. Domicilla. 

Domicil. Well, I’m not sorry — nay, I am heartily glad 
The young man is at large. It had been cruel 
To cut his head off for so small a crime; 






ACT V. SC. 2. 


367 


Although, the Montanino is no friend 
Of ours- 

Ippol. But may be soon. [ looking significantly at 

Cornelia. 

Domicil. Why, how thou talk’st! 

In my day-But I should be glad to know 

Who paid that fine. ’T is very odd! That Nello, 

I’m sure, knows more than he cares tell. “ A noble 

And brave cavalier ” \refiectingly.'] -No doubt! He must 

Have been a bold one. [ Cornelia looks attentively at 

Ippol ., who smiles. 

But’t is surely odd 

His name should not be known. I ’ll have the rogue 
Come up again. 

Ippol. [stopping her as she turns , apparently to 
touch a handbell. 

Nay, aunt, ’t is not worth while: 

It all must soon be out. And here, in fact, 

Comes the rogue’s self. 


Enter Antonello. 


Domicil. Now, Nello- 

Anton. Pardon, madam: 
[then turning directly to Ippol. 

Ser Carlo Montanino with a lady 

Waits in the hall, and humbly craveth audience 

Alone of the Messere. 







368 


THE MONTANHSTl 


Ippol. [with agitation.'] With a lady ? 

Domicil, [who has been dumb with amazement. 

The Montanino in my father’s halls ! 

And humbly craves ! Thou wilt not surely see him? 
Ippol. Why not ? 

Domicil. Alone ? 

Ippol. No, with a lady. Aunt, 

Thee and Cornelia I must pray retire. — 

To Hello.] Say to the noble gentleman, myself 
Will wait on him immediately. [Exit Anton. 

Domicil, [retiring.] What next ? 

The Montanino sues the Salimbene ! 

In his own hall! and humbly ! Times are chang’d. 
Heaven keep us ! Come, Cornelia. [Exit. 

Cornel, [putting her hand in her brother's with 

an admiring and affectionate look. 
Dear Ippol’to! 

It was then thou? 

Ippol. [smiling.] Didst thou not show the way ? 

Exit Cornelia after Domicilla, 
while Ippolito turns to the other side of the scene, 
but hesitating as he is about to leave. 

A lady ! — Angel' ?- Too late ! [Stands aside , 

bowing profoundly , as 

Enter Carlo, leading Angelica veiled. 

Carlo, who is deadly pale, 

returning the salutation with an air of deep submission, 
speaks with a melancholy yet dignified humility. 






ACT y. SC. 2. 


369 


Carlo. Messere, pardon. 

It was not meet that you, who are henceforth 
My lord forever, should descend to me, 

Your servant. I have therefore rather chosen 
To venture uninvited to your presence. — 

Ippol. Messer', the honor that you do this roof- 

Carlo. My lord, pray pardon me again. Such terms 

Are not for you to me. What you have done- 

Ippol. Ah, pardon me in turn. I have been bold ; 

But only as, I think, you would have been 
Under like circumstance: you must excuse me. 
Will you be seated ? 

. Carlo. It is not fit for us. — 

Be not amaz’d, but hear me. What I owe 
I have no means to render, only one. 

You are the master of my life; I am 
The humblest of your bondsmen, ready ever 
To do your sternest bidding without stop. 

But that is not enough. I have one gift 
You will more value. 

Angelica, who has hitherto 
leaned drooping on her brother's right shoulder , 
now grasps his arm in both her hands , 
her head hanging down over them , 
and seems ready to sink. 

Could the Almighty God 

Of all this world but give me once the choice 
16 * 





370 


THE MONTANINI 


To be so blest as I have been in her, 

[freeing his right arm , while raising her with the other , 
he puts his right hand on her head. 

Or be the lord of all in proud Siena, 

I would take poverty again and this 
His angel; for she is my heart, my brain ; 

There is no other like to her on earth. 

Yet, being such, I give her. She is yours. 

[He throws hack Angelica's veil. 
I need not sa}^ to you who are so noble, 

Be kind to her; you will not use her ill. 

And now, permit me. [Putting out his hand to Tppolito, 
while Angelica , unsupported sinks into a chair. 

Ippolito mistaking the action , 
and still in the extremity of surprise , mechanically 
extends his own, to meet his grasp. But Carlo, taking it 
by the fingers respectf ully, raises it, in the 
manner of an inferior and dependent, to his lips, and 
immediately , with the same melancholy humbleness, without 
looking at his sister , Exit. 

Angelica puts out one of her hands , 
as if to arrest him, then , recollecting herself, sinks 
back in the chair , and covers her face with 
both hands, weeping, while Ippolito stands confounded 
before her. At length rousing himself. 

Ippol. Lady, do not fear, [tremulously. 

I — go to bring those to you from whose lips 





ACT V. SC. 2. 


371 


You will more readily learn than mine, that here 
You have but to command. But first that homage, 

Your brother in my moment of surprise 
Made me receive, let me return to you. 

My heart goes with it. 

He kneels , and with reverence , yet ivith evident 
emotion , raises her hand to his lips. 

Angel. Messere — 0 believe ! —— 

[bursts into tears. 

Ippol. I do believe — I know — why you are here. 

The sacrifice is holy, is heroic, 

And lifts you higher, were there greater height, 

In my esteem. But that I deem it were 
To insult the helpless state wherein your brother 
Through a too lofty spirit and pride has plac’d you, 

I would here tell you how I have long lov’d, 

Ador’d you. Only from the fear to offend 
Both you and him, have I not ventur’d ever 
More than an outward reverence — and perhaps 
The homage of my eyes. 0 could I think!- 

She weeps , and does not withdraw her hand. 

Yes, yes, thou doubt’st me not; thou knowest, thou feelest, 
Feel’st in thy own pure spirit, I could not dream 
To impose on thy position. Let me then, 

Ere come my aunt, and sister, who has known 
From the very first my love, and learn’d to love thee, 





372 


THE MONTAN INI 


Say all. Angelica ! at thy maiden feet 
Ippolito lays his fortune, honor, name. 

If thou disdain them not, say but one word, 

But one, and make them thine. 

Angel. [with mingled joy and ten¬ 
derness , as she hides her blushes on his shoulder. 

Ippolito!— 

Scene closes. 

« 


Scene III. and the Last. 

As in Act I. Scene I. 

Carlo 

seated at a table near the centre , his face hidden in his 
hands , the fingers of which are buried in his hair. 

After some moments , 

Enter Barbara from the left. 

She moves a step or two towards him , then stoops 
u,nd curtsies several times , pausing a little after each inclination. 




ACT Y. SC. 3. 


373 


She approaches then nearer , so as to attract his attention , 
and again curtsies—his back being towards her. 

Carlo. [half turning his head , then resuming his attitude. 

What want’st thou, girl ? 

Barb. Where is Madonna. Master? 
Carlo, [dropping his hands , but without looking at her , 

and speaking slowly and with great mournfulness. 
Where ? — Where ? — I would I knew ! * 

Barb. 0 God, Messere ! 
Do not speak so ! you frighten me. 

Carlo. I meant not. 

Thy mistress is not here. Go seek her. [sadly, but without 

harshness. 
Barb. Gianni 

Knows where she is, but will not tell me. 

Carlo. Gianni 

Knows nothing, more than I. He saw me lead her 

Out to the street, and whither. Where — and what- 

Go to thy chamber; thou wilt know to-morrow. 

Go to thy chamber, girl. 

Barbara is about to retire , but stops suddenly by the 
embrasure of a window in the left wing , and appears to look out. 
Carlo, hearing her stop , turns round. 

Seriously , but still without harshness. 

What mak’st thou there 

At the window, girl ? Didst thou not hear me ? Go. 
Barb. Pardon, Messere; there is something doing 




374 


THE MONTANINI 


At the Palazzo Salimbeni yon. [looking eagerly again. 
Carlo. [springing up. 

Ah ! Mercy, God! — What seest thou ? 

Barb. People standing 

At the great gate. There’s something to come out. 

Carlo. [motionless in the centre — seemingly arrested by terror. 

And ?- Look again, good Barba. Seem they sad ? 

Barb. No, merry. Hear their murmurs! Look, dear Master. 
Carlo. I cannot look. [Barb, gazing with increased earnestness. 

— What now ? 

Barb. It is — Giesii! 
Madonna’s self! with Messer Salimbene! 

She looks so happy! though her eyes are down — 

And blushes scarlet. One hand is in his, 

The other holds in hers Madonna Nelia, 

And Monna Domicilla walks beside. 

Carlo clasps his hands in ecstasy , but 

stands as before. 

They ’re coming hither ! How the people shout! 

Now Monna Nelia whispers something low, 

Which makes Madonna smile, but blush still more; 

And Messer Salimbene scatters gold, 

Which the rogues gather up, first shouting louder. 

They ’re in! 

She starts from the window , and without regarding 
her master , runs across the stage. 

— I knew! I knew! 0 happy day! 

[Exit at the right. 

Carlo, [who, tottering backward, has sunk into the chair. 




ACT y. SC. 3. 


375 


I thank Thee, .Heaven! And pardon me my doubts ! 
After a few moments , 

he appears to recover , and resuming his wonted majesty of mien , 
moves slowly to the right , ivhere presently 

Enter 

Angelica, Ippolito, Cornelia, and Domicilla, 
bowed in by G-ianni, and followed by Barbara. 
Angelica rushes into Carlo’s arms. 

Angel. Brother! 

Carlo. My darling! and my life! — Messere, 

I crave your pardon; and yours, noble ladies, 

That I have made your welcome wait; but joy 

In this recover’d treasure- 

Ijypol. Which is mine. 

Revoke not, Messer Carlo. What you gave 
I come now to accept, not to restore. 

For Carlo’s sister is now Ippolito’s bride. 

[raises A ngelica 1 s hand to his lips. 
Carlo. Noble Ippolito! you have crush’d with debt 
Your poor but happy debtor. Half my gift 
Has Angela taken away, to give, herself. 

The other yet remairfs; for I am still, 

As I shall ever be, your humblest bondsman, 

Ready to do your bidding as my lord. 

Gianni, in the background , betrays consternation, 
and Barbara surprise. Domicilla gazes on Carlo with wonder 
and interest , and Cornelia with admiration. 

Ippol. You hear him, all? 




376 


THE MONTANINI 


Gianni. [muttering.] His grandsire would have heard 
An earthquake sooner; that is my idea. 

Domicil. And mine, old man. The times are sorely chang’d. 
Ippol. And thou shalt change too, Aunt. 

Carlo, [severely] Be silent, Gianni. 
The Salimbene’s love would fill these walls, 

Though they were left still emptier than they are 
By Montaninan hatred. 

Ippol. Nobly said I 

Is ’t not, Cornelia ? [ looking closely at his sister , who has 

manifested some emotion. 
Carlo, thou hast said 
Thou ’It do my bidding. 

Carlo, [solemnly.] Truly, in all things. 

Ippol. Make suit then to my sister. Unto her 

I here transfer thy service. Canst thou win her, 

Thou ’It win what’s worth the wearing, and render me, 
Doubly thy brother, lighter i’ the conscience, 

As having made restitution for this treasure 
Whereof I’ve robb’d thee, [drawing Angel, lightly to him. 
Carlo, [seizing his hand.] Generous Salimbene! 

Domicil. Now Heaven help us ! 

Carlo, [turning to Cornelia with mod¬ 
esty, yet with dignity. 
Lady, if such as I, 

A man so fallen in fortune and sad of heart, 

Venture to lift his thoughts to such as you, 

Whom under luckier stars he had been happy 
And proud to dare address, ascribe it kindly 




ACT Y. SC. 3. 


377 


Not to too forward a spirit, but duty vow’d 
To my life’s master. 

Cornel. Sir, must I make answer? 

I rate so high my brother’s love for me, 

I cannot think he would have chosen else 
Than for my happiness; and he whose life 
Was freely offer’d for his sister’s sake, 

And whom that sister better lov’d than fame, 

Lifts not his thoughts, but lowers, to such as I. — 

Ippol. [half aside to Carlo. 

Is she not worthy ? 

Cornel. [continuing .] If my aunt approve- 

Domicil. That word redeems us all. In my day, maidens- 

Ippol. Had hearts of just such pliant stuff as now; 

And Monna Domicilla was but woo’d 
As Angela and Cornelia must be won. 

Domicil. Child, thou forgott’st me. 

Ippol. No, I but forestall’d : 

I knew beforehand what thou wouldst approve. 

Domicil, [to Carlo.] Sir, I am yet too much a Salimbene 
. To say that I rejoice; but this believe : 

I truly honor you, and one day may love. 

Ippol. [hugging her , — she struggling in his arms , half pleased, 
half piqued. 

Why, that’s my aunt! I said that thou wouldst change. 
Carlo, [hissing her hand.] Madonna, I shall strive to win your 
favor ; 

And hope to, will this lady teach me how. 

Ippol. [to Cornel., as Carlo hisses her hand in turn. 





378 


THE MONTANINI 


Cornelia’s ring, thou seest, is soon reset. 

Cornel. With such another jewel as the first. 

Tppol. But burn’d a deeper sanguine in the fire 
Which has not tried the ruby of my love. 

Cornel. I ’ll wear them, brother, both then, side by side. 

Ippol. First ask Angelica. Half my heart, I said, 

Was long since hers. 

Cornel. And half of Messer Carlo’s 
Is still his sister’s. Thus I have but one. 

And thou, Angelica, art not better off. 

These men are but half lovers. 

Angel. But these brothers! 

Cornel. Ah! there, Angelica, both of us agree. 

We ’ll keep each other’s brother; and they shall see 
Which half is better set, with thee or me. 

Gianni, who has been curiously watching Cornelia , and working 
himself more and more forward , now advancing to Carlo. 

Gianni. That is the lady, Master, I’m a-thinking, 

That left the roll of florins at the gate. 

And the same too gave Barbara the hundred; 

That’s my idea. 

Barb, [to Angel.\ Madonna, pardon me. 

The secret now is told; but [to Cornel.'] not through me. 
Carlo. And to our enemies we thus owe all! 

0 lady, can my life, which you would ransom, 

And your brave brother, my true lord, has redeem’d, 
Ever repay these benefits from both ? 

So let me be indeed thy servitor, 



ACT Y. SC. 3. 


379 


And all the idolatry I paid my sister 

Shall henceforth yield its worship at thy shrine. 

[kisses Cornells hand with evident emotion. 
Domicil, [with tender reproach. 

Couldst thou not, niece, have let me share in this ? — 
Cornel. Dear aunt, I fear’d — thou knowest, thy family 
views- 

Domicil. Naughty Cornelia ! was I so mistrusted ? 

But I won’t contradict: for, in my day, 

Such things were never thought of. Well! I hope 
’T is for the better; but’t is true the times 
Are sadly chang’d. 

Ippol. No, gladly, say, my aunt. 

Domicil. Don’t contradict me, dear my boy. 

Ippol. No, aunt: 

For here are foes no more to breed dispute. 

The Montanino-Salimbene one, 

Thou shalt have care henceforth alone to see 
Times change indeed, but let them still agree. 

Barbara, 

who after her brief part in the colloquy has been seen to 
go to the window , and there respond by sign to some signal from 
without , and then steal off from the scene , now re-enters, 
leading in Antonello. Both appear excited. 

<r 

Gianni, [shaking his head. 

Always with Antonello! 

Carlo. What bring’st thou ? 

Barb. [joyously.\ The sentence is revers’d ! Ask Nello, Master. 





380 


THE MONTANINT 


Ippol. Speak. 

Anton. What she says is true. The Ser Beecari 
Is banish’d and his name struck from the rolls, 

For plotting against Messere Carlo’s life. 

Carlo. Ah ! [ looking at Angelica , who turning pale presses closer 
to Ippolito. Domicilla and Cornelia evince as¬ 
tonishment, — Cornelia's not unmingled with 
indignation. 

Ippol. Speak from the beginning. How is this ? 

Anton. Ser Giacomo G-radenata — whom I met 

One day with little Barba — [ darting a look of sly malice 

at Barbara. 

Gianni. Ay, I ’ve seen her 
With Ser Beccari too. She’s much too easy, 

I’m thinking, with such fellows: that’s my idea. 

Barb. But not affair. 

Angel. Peace, Barba! 

Carlo. And thou, Gianni, 

Show more of reverence. 

Ippol. And, good Hello, keep 
Thy feuds with Barbara for her private ear. 

Thou shalt have full occasion by and by. 

Proceed. 

Anton. [with more of his usual manner , and speaking with 
4 increasing rapidity as he goes on. 

Ser Giacomo, brib’d by the Beccari, 

Made the false charge, but, horrified to find 
A murder toward, told all unto his sister. 

Monna Camilla goes straightway to the Nine- 





ACT V. SC. 3. 


381 


Angel. His sister! 

Ippol. And betroth’d to G-asparo’s self! 

Barb. [significantly .] I think I know the motive. 

Carlo. Ah!- The wretch! 

Angel. Thou shalt know all a fitter time. Ippolito. 

Anton. Yes, Barbara lent her motive to Ser Giac’mo. 

Gianni. She lends too many, I’m thinking, to such gentry. • 
Ippol. Let Barbara alone, my friends. What then ? 

Anton. Both of them banish’d from the State forever — 
Beccari’s fortune confiscated — name 
Struck from the rolls — 

Ippol. ’T is retribution just. 

Anton. The fine remitted — Messer Montanino 
Restor’d to all his honors. 

Carlo. And thus the weight 
Of seven hundred florins is off my heart. 

Its pulse may now beat freely to thy love, 

Noble Ippolito. 

Ippol. With thy consent 
I ’ll part the seven hundred twixt these three ; 

One half to honest Gianni, and one half 
To Nello and Barba, whom we will make one. 

Gianni, [shaking his head. 

Best make her one, I ’m thinking, with all mankind. 

Barb. Now God forbid, were all like thee! 

Carlo. Peace, girl! 

And thou, old man, rein-in that petulant tongue. 

Fit’t were you us’d it, thou and Barba both, 

In thanking that munificence which makes you 


% 




382 


THE MONTANINI 


Rich far beyond your sphere. 

Gianni. I am most thankful. 

But Messer Carlo, to your father’s son 
I should not need to boast, who serv’d his sire, 

That Gianni, poor and old, takes never money 
Save from his master’s hand. 

Carlo. Forgive me, Gianni; 

Forgive my chiding, — even for those words, 

Which show thy tongue takes counsel from thy heart 
As well as spleen. \He extends his hand to Gianni , who 

hisses it, with tears. 

Ippol. Yet take it from my sister, 

Who will be soon thy mistress. 

Cornel. And who adds 
What she impos’d upon thee at the gate: 

For’t is thy due, yet scarcely thy desert; — 

For where are honest pride and faith like thine ? 

Gianni. [much moved and hissing her hand. 

Madonna, I ne’er thought to live to see 
The Montanino and Salimbene join’d, 

And cry with joy at it. But I do. I’m thinking, 
Heaven makes some curses blessings ; and old times 
Have chang’d now for the better; that’s my idea. 

Antonello and Barbara likewise make their acknowl ¬ 
edgments to Ippolito, in dumb show. 

Domicil. Mine, Gianni, too. Yet, dear me! in my day- 

But never mind ! I will not change again. • 

Ippol. Not with the times? Nay, Aunt, play out the play. 






ACT Y. SC. 3. 


383 


Domicil. Don’t contradict, Ippol’to dear. I mean, 

The present happy truce I sha’n’t gainsay. 

Ippol. * Truce ? ’T is a peace : “I’m thinking,” to remain, 
(As Gianni says,) till doomsday. 

Domicil. And I say, 

Thereto, Amen! my boy. 

Ippol. Is that the vein ? 

Why then the play is play’d, for good and all. 

Cornel. \in half-whisper. 

Be it. Yet, while Aunt Cilia is in train, 

'T were very well to let the Curtain fall. 


Curtain falls. 











NOTES 

TO 

THE MOHTAHIHI 


* 

1. — P. 263. The Montanint.] Tim story is founded on the 

XLIXth Novel of Bandello. 

2. —P. 264. Carlo di Tommaso Montantno.] That is, as sub¬ 
sequently shown (Act I. Sc. 1.), Carlo son of, etc. A mode of writing 
the names of persons that was very common in all parts of Italy in 
the Middle Ages. 

“ Olim a Patris nomine, non Senis tantum, sed et in aliis Italiae 
Civitatibus, consuevere non pauci cognomeutum sibi adsciscere. Hiuc 
audias Piero di Tegliaccio, Francesco di Messer Vanni, done di Vitel- 
luccio, Neri di Guccio , atque horum similia; hoc est, Petrum Tegliaccii 
Jilium, Francesci Domini Vannis filium , etc. Rursus in more fuit 
nomina quaedam contrahere, ac veluti dimidiata adhibere ; nam pro 
Alexandro aliquis appellabatur Sandro , pro Bartholomceo Meo, pro 
Arriguccio, ut ego arbitror, Guccio , pro Maphato, sive Maffeo , Feo, 

pro Uguccione done .Infra nobis occurrent Messer Sozzo 

Dei, et Messer Deo Gucci , qui alibi appellatur Messer Deo di Messer 
Guccio. Eadem ratione in hisce regionibus nobiles Manfredormn, 
VOL. IV.—17 



386 


NOTES TO 




Piorum, Picorum, aliorumque familiae, Patris nomen in suum cogno- 
mentum oiim verterunt.” Murator. In Chron. Senen. Andr. Dei 
prcefat. Rer. Ital. Script. T. xv. 


3. —P. 264. Salimbeni.] Pronounce the e as a in bane. It is 
one of those foreign names which cannot be anglicized without mar¬ 
ring it. So in the name Bertuccio A rrigucci, which will occur fre¬ 
quently in the play, sound the first of the two c’s as t :— toot'-tcheo , 
— goot'-tche. 

4. —P. 264. Volpicina.] A character-name, the diminutive of 
volpe (she-fox). Pronounce, as in Italian: Vohl-pe-tche'-nah. 


5.—P. 265. Ser Gasparo. J The prefix of courtesy and of rever¬ 
ence, Sere or Ser, and, in its complete or composite form, Messere or 
Messer , had at this time been in vogue for only about forty years, if 
a note to that effect in Muratori is accepted, and was at first equiva¬ 
lent to Signore , Signor, being convertible in the Latin into Dominus. 
In a later age, Messere was confined to members of the bench, doctors, 
and priests, as we read in Yarchi. Compare note 12 to Bianca 
Capello. 

Muratori, or one of his co-workers, thinks that the word, in the 
form Missere , came in with the study of the Provensal about the time 
of Dante’s master, Ser Brunetto Latini. Cs. in his vol. above-cited, 
in coll. 145, 6, a note to the Sanesan Chronicle of Neri di Donato * 
Giovanni Villani however applies it to personages in periods long 


i 


* Still, I do not think that the example adduced by the commentator is con¬ 
clusive, namely, that in a letter of 1265 to one of the Tolomei is written, not 
a Messere Tolomeo, but Domino Tolomeo. • For as Dominus was the usual form 
in the Latin acts and records, etc., so it was very natural, especially in the mon¬ 
grel Italian employed in that very writing cited, the words should be interchanged. 
See extracts from certain notarial instruments in Notes 1 and 2, p. x. of the Elogio 
di G. V. T. viii. Cronica. ed. cit. 





















THE MONTANINI 


387 


anterior to that epoch, as will be seen presently.* And in fact the 
reference to Ser Brunetto Latin! would itself put its introduction 
back at least a score of years before the period of 1280 assigned by 
the Italian archaeologist, for Ser Brunetto is named by G. Villaui 
among the Guelfs who fled from Florence to Lucca in 1260 (T. ii. p. 
113, ed. infra cit.) after the disastrous day of Montaperti. This was 
five years before the date assigned to the birth of Dante, who' ad¬ 
dresses his old master by that title in the Shades: “ Siete voi qui, 
Ser Brunetto l ” f where it is pbservable that the plural address of 
reverence, voi for iu, is employed. 

What the comment on the Sanesan Chronicle advances, that be¬ 
tween the word Messere and the simple Sere the same distinction 
obtains as was usual with Madonna and its contraction Monna. — 
namely, that the briefer term was applied to persons of a relatively 
inferior condition,:}: as for example, in the case of Ser , to notaries and 

* He goes back indeed as far as the year 1113, under which date, in his 4th 
Book (c. xxix.), he speaks of '■'•Messer Ruberto Tedesco, vicario dello ’mperadore 
Arrigo in Toscana.” It is true, Villani, who was contemporary with Dante, may 
be supposed to confer the prefix after the fashion of his time. 

t Two other instances in Dante illustrate so fully the mode of using both forms 
as to be in themselves sufficient exemplification. In Purcjcitorio xxiv. we have 
Messer applied to the Cavalier Marchese, and in Paradiso , at the close of the 
xiiith Cto., adopting a name (Martino) to indicate generally any class of illiterate 
men, he prefixes simple Ser , making it correlative with Donna (Monna, in modern 
edd.) for the female : 

„ “Non creda donna [monna] Berta e ser Martino.” 

Here we see Monna applied precisely as we do Madam and Mrs. 
t “Non si pud negare, che nella sua origine Sere sia l’istesso che Signore; ma 
I d da osservarsi, che i nomi accorciati si davano a persone d’inferior condizione, 
come d noto ne’ titoli di Madonna e Monna. L'uno si dava alle Prencipesse ed 
anco a quelle Donne di Nobilta assoluta ; e l’altro alle Donne Nobili, ma non di 
Condizione Principesca, e alle Donne popolari, ma che erano di Famiglie risedute, 
restando l'altre senza titolo. . . Cosi d giustamente avvenuto a 1 titoli di Missere 
e di Sere. II primo si dava fra gli altri a’ Giudici, e Dottori, e l’altro a Notai, che 
per lo piu sono al servigio de’ medesimi.” Loc. sup. cit. 

It is indeed a distinction reasonable and natural in itself, that is, arising from 






388 


NOTES TO 


simple priests, to which two classes the annotator would appear to 
confine it, — is supported by the usage of old writers. In the list 
of the embassy sent to the Emperor when at Pisa (March 1, 1355), 

we have the names thus set down: “ Misser Guccio di. 

Talomei, Giovanni d’Agnolino Salimbeni, Misser Francesco di Misser 
Bino Giudice de gli Accarigi, Renaldo del Peccio, Davino di Memmo, 
Giovanni di Tura Neri de’ Montanini, Ser Mino di Meo Filippi loro 
Notajo.” Cron. San. c. 146. It is at this very passage thaf the 
comment I refer to is made, and it certainly of itself sets the matter 
in a very plain light. The fact too is confirmed by the instance of 
Brunetto, who was a notary. In the 16th century the distinction 
continues to be very observable. Thus, while Varchi the historian’s 
father, who was an attorney, is styled simply Ser Giovanni, his son 
is dignified as Messer Benedetto, having been endowed by Duke 
Cosmo with a benefice in Mugello. In that historian’s xvth Book 
(T. v. p. 349 ed. al. cit.) we have this noticeable passage, which hap¬ 
pily exemplifies both subjects of the note : . . . “ un ser Mariotto di 
ser Luca de’ Primi d’ Anghiari suo cancelliere ” . . where cancelliere 
is evidently used for segretario, although in the acceptation'of register 
of public acts it would put the person it indicates in the same class 
with the notary of those days. 

But the distinction, though I have thought it of sufficient interest 
to be noted for the student and the lover of accuracy, is of no conse¬ 
quence, even were it practicable, in a drama in English; and that I 

the customs and thought-habits of men, all contractions in names or titles of ad- ‘ 
dress savoring of familiarity, sometimes that of affection or of popularity, or in¬ 
dicating a reverence or respect that is conceded rather than exacted. The Mrs. 
and Ma'am of the English, the Ma'm'selle (fam. and vulg.) of the French, the 
listed of the Spanish, are all analogous corruptions ; arising from precisely similar 
causes, familiarity of intercourse, rapidity of utterance, and the desire to avoid a 
formality which by its frequent repetition becomes not only stiff but disagreeable. 

It is probable also that thence, and not, as Webster is inclined to think, from the 
influence of some Northern language, the word Master in compellation took the 
slender sound of Mister. 







THE MONTAN INI 


389 


have disregarded it in the present play, whose action is of 1322, can 
i scarcely be held a license even by an Italian scholar, especially as 
there are authorities who would appear to justify the interchange,* 
and even Muratori himself acknowledges, what indeed requires 
no demonstration, that Sere was originally the same as Signore. A 
like remark, so far as the unimportance of exactness in these 
particulars, in an English pla) r , may be made as to the mode 
of placing the prefix, which, in both its forms, is never used 
(that I have yet seen) before the name proper, iaut occurs before 
the forename only, precisely as the Don (Dominus) of the Spaniard, 
and the titular address and designation of a knight or a baronet 
in England, f 

6.—P. 269. — the dainty Three . . . my father's day Saio 

disinterred, etc.] I have forgotten my authority for this fact. But 
the following passage, from a well-written guide-book of travel, ex¬ 
plains fully the text, if it is not indeed the very source to which 
perhaps I was indebted. 

“In the library [of the Duomo or Cathedral] is also preserved the exquisite 
antique group of the Graces in Greek marble, found under the foundations in the 
13th century. This group, one of the finest known examples of Grecian sculp¬ 
ture, was copied by Canova, and was so much admired by Raphael that he made 

* See in R. It-. Sc. the note just cited. My disregard however of this distino 
tion, as well as of the mode of employing it, arose probably from the incomplete¬ 
ness - of my information at the time. Unimportant as I admit them to be in 
English, I should, I think, had I known better, have carefully observed both these 
niceties of ancient Italian usage, if only as a point of costume. A voluntary error 
of the sort would have been a deviation from truth. 

11 need hardly add that our Sir, used in ordinary compellation, is precisely 
the same word. With us too, that is in English, it was anciently given as a title 
to priests. It is interesting to observe how in modem intercourse these distinc¬ 
tions become less and less certain and are finally wiped away, precisely as the 
plural style of address has almost excluded from ordinary conversation the thou 
and thee which at one time indicated inferiority. 





390 


NOTES TO 


a sketch of it, which is still preserved in the Academy of Venice. It is also sup¬ 
posed to have suggested the picture of the Graces by Raphael, formerly in Sir" 
Thomas Lawrence's collection, and afterwards in that of the late Lord Dudley.” 
Blewitt’s Handbook of Central Italy , 2d ed. 1850. 

7. —p. 271. What, my fair Volscian, though not JDian's nymph.] 

In allusion to the Camilla of Virgil. 

“ Hos super advenit, Volsca de gente, Camilla.” 

/En. vii. 803. ed. Hunter: Arulr. 1799. 

“Est et, Volscorum egregia de gente, Camilla, 

Agmen agens equitum et florentis aere catervas.” XI. 433. 

Her father had dedicated her when an infant to Diana, in the emer¬ 
gence recounted ib. 539, sqq. And the goddess, deploring the fate 
of the maiden queen, says there : 

“ Vellem haud correpta fuisset 

Militia tali, conata lacessere Teucros : 

Cara mihi comitumque foret nunc una mearum.” 

8. —P. *273. Thou 'dst like again to venture ?] At this place was 
inserted in the copy the following stage-direction: The door above is 
seen to open a little way , and the face of Camilla appears in the open¬ 
ing. But in the original Ms., I find I had remarked in the margin: 

' 

“ Or without this ; as it is more natural that the door should not be 
opened, and this indication to the spectators that the party is listen¬ 
ing is a commonplace stage-action. Camilla’s words at the close of 
the Scene, and previously the noise she makes behind the door 
which startles G-aspar, are enough, and more refined, for the printed 
drama at least.” 

I am still of that opinion. But for the Stage the by-play, though 
both unnatural and commonplace, is perhaps requisite, and certainly 
aids the intelligence of a mixed audience. I shall therefore indicate 








THE MONTANINI 


391 


here, in the Notes, the remaining directions that are omitted from the 
Scene. They number from this point, 8, to 13 inclusive. 

9-—P. 274. Camilla draws the door to again. 

19.—P. 274. Giacomo sits again sullenly. Beccari draws his 
chair closer to him — in so doing looks once more at the door, hut it is 
not yet reopened. 

11. —P. 274. Camilla appears listening again. 

12. —P. 275. Camilla, from behind the door, shakes her finger 

at him. 

13. —P. 275. Camilla shakes her fist at Giacomo , hut in the move¬ 
ment makes a noise, and quickly closes the door, ere Beccari turning 
hastily can detect her. 

14. —P. 280. — bowing reverent-lmo ... he yields the path, 

etc.] The streets of Siena are very narrow; so that the courtesy 
was almost imperative. 

15. —P. 289. — the Arhia.'] The little stream which flows by 

Siena. 

16. —P. 2S9. - the she-wolf —] The emblem of Siena, which 

is stuck up in various parts of the city, as the bear is in Bern. 

17. —P. 289. — the great Countess — ] Matilda of Tuscany 

the friend of Pope Hildebrand. 

18. —P. 289. — Sane'si — ] The Italian, or rather, Tuscan 

name for the people of Siena. 

The origin of the city is ascribed by Villani to the old and invalided 
soldiers of Charles Martel, left by him in that locality in 670; 
whence its first name Sena (and in the pi., for the double strong- 





392 


NOTES TO 


hold, Senae ), “ derivando di quelli che v’ erano rimasi per vec- 
chiezza ” Cron I. lvi. p. 73 sq. t. 1, ed. cit. 

This is contrary to the opinion generally entertained, which would 
put it so far back as the Senensis Colonia of Pliny. In the Handbook 
just cited, we are told: “ Siena preserves, almost without change, the 
name of Sena Julia, and is supposed to have been a colony estab¬ 
lished by Julius Caesar” (meaning probably, in his time). 

19. —P. 291. Gelica — ] This abbreviation of names (here and 
elsewhere in the play) was the custom of the day, and is therefore 
characteristic of the period of the action. The familiar instance of 
the contemporary poet Dante will occur to the reader: Dante for 
Durante; as the lady he has immortalized by the complete name of 
Beatrice was commonly known as Bice. 

I have touched lightly on this subject before, at p. 256 of this 
vol. Comp., above, Notes 2 and 5. In all the modern tongues, 
including our own, we are familiar with similar abbreviations. The 
difference is, that at the present day the contracted name is often 
vulgar, and always familiar, if not disrespectful; in those days it 
was of general usage, and conveyed no disparagement, and if not 
elegant yet did not savor of vulgarity. 

20. - P. 292. Plotting with Deo of the Tolomei , The banish'd 
Guelff\ He was, with Messer Sozzo Dei, one of the heads of the 
conspiracy which had terminated in their expulsion, and that of 
their confederates, three years previously. See G. Villani , IX. 
xcvi. (t. iv. p. 95 ed. cit.) The influence of the Salimbeni, who in 
part were on the side of the existing government, and the readiness 
of the Tolomei, in their feud with that family, to make it an occa¬ 
sion of revolt, are seen in the same chapter. Further on in Book 
IX., the mutual enmity, and at the same time the power of these 
rival houses, find brief but sufficient illustration in the following 
passages: — “Nell’ anno 1322, del mese d’Aprile, la citta di Siena 



THE MO NT ANI NT 


393 




fu a romore per eagione che quegli della casa de’ Salimbeni uccisono 
uua notte due fratelli carnali figliuoli di cavaliere della casa de’ 
lolomei, loro nemici, nelle loro case. Per la potenza delle dette 
due case i Sanesi quasi tutti parati per combattersi insieme, ec.” 
cxlvii. p. 139 sq. “ Nel detto anno [1326] . .. . il duca di Cala- 

vra con sua baronia e cavalieri entro nella citta di Siena . . . 

Trovo la terra molto partita per la guerra cli’ era intra ’Tolomei e’ 
Salimbeni, che quasi tutti i cittadini chi tenea coll’ uno e chi coll’ 
altro . . . e ’1 duca cosi fece, che tra le due case Tolomei e 

Salimbeni fece fare triegua con sofficiente sicurta cinque anni” 

. . . ccclvi. p. 343 sq. 

fn 1337, they made peace together at the command of the Pope. 
Cron. San. R. L S. xv. 96. 

21. —P. 292. Condemn'd to pay, etc.] This was a constant 
mode of punishment, presumably for the rich and powerful. Thus, 
in the year of our play, fifteen of the Tolomei were mulcted, three 
of them in a thousand florins each. Cron. San. u. c. 54. 

22. —P. 297. — who could lend the State , etc.] “ Incontanente 

si provvidono [i Sanesi e gli usciti ghibellini] di moneta, e accattaro 
dalla compagnia de’ Salimbeni, che allora erano mercatanti, ventimila 
fiorini d’oro, e puosono loro pegno la rocca a Tentennana, e piu altre 
eastella del comune.” G. Vill. VI. lxxvi. (ed. cit. II. p. 104.) Cs. 
Note 24. 

| 

23. —P. 309. The people do not like you any more Than do the 
nobles; etc.] 

“ Era per lunghi tempi governato il reggimento della Citta di 
Siena per l’ordine di Nove, il quale era ristretto in meno di novanta 
Cittadini, sotto c'erto industrioso inganno: perd che quando il 
tempo veniva di fare i loro generali squittini, accio che ogni degno 
cittadino popolare entrasse nello ordine de’ Nove, coloroche haveano 
gia usurpati gli Uficj si ragunavano segretamente in una Chiesa, e 

17 * 









394 


NOTES TO 


ivi disponeano di alcuni cui e’ yoleano che rimanessono nell’ or- 
dine, fermandoli tra loro per saramento. E prometteano tutti dare 
a’ detti le loro boci co’ lupini neri, e tutti gli altri, die audavano 
alio squittino, ch’ erano molti buoai e degni Cittadiui, gli riprovavano 
co’ lupini bianchi, si che l’ordine non crescea piu che volessono : ne- 
alcuno v’entrava che tra loro in prima non fosse diliberato: Per la 
qual cosa erano in odio a tutti gli altri popolani, e a grande parte 
de 7 nobili, con cui non s’intendeano. Eranvi certi, che manteneano 
questa citta, e guidavano il comune, come e 7 voleano.” M. V illani. 
IV. c. lxi. in Rer. Hal. Script. XIV. coll. 218 sq. The historian 
goes on to show, how, with the desire to debase and disfranchise 
Florence by the power of Charles IV., the chiefs in the government 
of the Nine made over their own liberties to that Emperor. 

24.—P.314. —their enormous, wealth —] A note to the Sanesan 
Chronicle ( l. c. coll. 96, 1) attests at once the great wealth and the 
large commerce of this powerful family. For their wealth, it will be 
sufficient to quote the first paragraph. “ In quest 7 anno 1337 si osserva 
la gran ricchezza de 7 Salimbeni. Qui si legge: ‘ Benuccio di Giovanni 
Salimbeni era in questo tempo 1337. Camarlengo, e distribuitore 
de le Casate de 7 Salimbeni Nobili di Siena, cioede 7 censi, e argentiera, 
e ramiera, donde che piu anni avea a distribute infra 16. capifa- 
miglie di Salimbeni circa a fiorini centp mila d’oro. 77 For their com¬ 
merce, it is said that they sold in the single month of January of the 
succeeding year (1338) “ ottanta horse [“borse da spose d’oro,” 
elsewhere] per 80. spose novelle di Casate de 7 Nobili di Siena” 
Whereupon the commentator adds the remark, “ that it demonstrates 
sufficiently the great riches the Sanesan people made by traffic, as it 
further makes evident the great Nobility that was then in Siena, 
he not supposing it possible that in any city whatever of Italy in 
his own time there could in a single year be made eighty marriages 
among families actually noble.” 





THE M0NTANIN1 


395 


25. —P. 325. — and when the Nine Begin to totter, etc.] It was not 
till thirty-three years afterward that the iniquitous government was 
put down by Charles IY., in violation of his own engagement. See 
Matt. Yillani; who remarks philosophically: “E pare degua cosa, 
che coloro, i quali ingannano in Comune i loro Cittadini, e rompono 
la fede a’ loro amici, che alcuna volta per quella medesima sieno 
puniti, e portino pena de’ peccati commessi.” ad init. cap. lxxxi. 
col. 294. The Emperor entered Siena the 25th of March, 1355, 
whereupon the Tolomei, Malavolti, Piccolomini, Saracini, and those 
of the Salimbeni who were opposed to the corrupt magistracy, with 
a concourse of common people, raised the cry of “ Yiva lo ’mpera- 
dore, e muojono i Nove e le gabelle! ” There occurred the usual 
scenes of violence, with death to some, and spoliation; the expulsion 
of the Nine and their families. The next day the Emperor forbad 
forever the office and order. All who had taken part in the Govern¬ 
ment, to escape the danger and the infamy with which they were 
regarded as traitors to their own country, went into foreign lands. 
ib. lxxxii. col. 295. The Chronicle of Neri di Donato records the 
event with more force and greater detail. The Emperor swears to 
preserve the order of the Nine. (They had sent an embassy to him. 
See note 5, above, also note 23 ad c., p. 394.) He enters, the 23 d 
of March, to the cry of “ Yiva Lomperadore, e muoja li Nove !cuts 
the chains of the city the 24th. The next day, the 25th, Siena in 
arms. Charles revokes his oath and annuls all the privileges con¬ 
ceded. — The account of the riot, and its violence, and the over¬ 
throw of the Nine, is very full in this chronicler. Robbery; arson; 
death and wounds to some of the order, complete ruin to all, whom 
none, not even the clergy, would succor. Ad ann. 1355. 

26. _P. 332. —five hundred golden Johns!] On one side of the 

llorin of gold was the image of John the Baptist, with the legend 
‘ Santo Giovanni Battista ”; on the other the lily of the republic 
(whence its name), with “Fiorenza.’ 








.‘396 


NOTES TO 


It was in 1252, in a period of great prosperity and elation, after 
victories over tlieir rivals, that the Florentines commenced the coin¬ 
ing of this famous piece, gold money not being then in use with 

them. As it was of extraordinary fineness, it came at once into 

* 

great repute, and its value was so jealously regarded that for nearly 
300 years we find scarcely any if any change either in the weight or 
the quality of the metal.* Villani tells us the florins were twenty- 
four carats fine and that eight of them weighed an ounce [Cron. VI. 
liii.); Varchi, a little more than twenty-three and seven-eighths in 
fineness [St. Fior. t. v. p. 61. ed. al. cit.), and that every hundred 
weighed an exact pound (t. iii. p. 115). But as the latter is so parti¬ 
cular in his statement, it may be that he has only expressed with 
precision what Villani described in general terms. 

The florin of gold was also called a ducat (V. ib. III. 117), as here 
in Act IV. Sc. 2, and throughout Bianca. 

Of course, while the nominal value was the same, as estimated in 
lire and soldi, the actual worth of the coin varied in different ages 
(see Varchi as above, III. 117, 118), and at that distant day a thou¬ 
sand florins of gold, though in computation but little more than so 
many of our gold dollars, was a very considerable sum of money. 

27.—P. 315. Messer Provenzano, etc.] At Colie di Valdelsa , in 
1269, when the Florentine Guelfs defeated the Ghibellines of Siena 
and their allies of the same faction, and avenged the disaster of 
Montaperti. “II Conte Guido Novello si fuggi, e messere Proven¬ 
zano Salvani signore e guidatore dell’ oste de’ Sanesi fu preso, e 
tagliatoli il capo, e per tutto il campo portato fitto in su una lancia. 
E bene s’ adempie la profezia e revelazione che gli avea fatta il diavolo 
per via d’incautesimo, ma non la intese; che avendolo fatto con- 
strignere per sapere come capiterebbe in quella oste, mendacemente 

* This had its natural consequence. They not only rose in value in 1531, but 
they were withdrawn from circulation, and melted or hoarded. VARCHI, ut s. III., 
117, sq. & V. 61. 






THE MONTANINT 


397 


rispuose, e disse : anderai e combatterai, vincerai no morrai alia bat- 
taglia, e la tua testa fia la piu alta del campo ; e egli credendo avere 
la vittoria per quelle parole, e credendo rimanere signore sopra tutti, 
non fece il punto alia fallacie, ove disse: vincerai no, morrai ec. E 
pero e grande follia a credere a si fatto consiglio come quello del 
diavolo ” G. Yillani. VII. xxxi. (T. II. p. 195.) 

28.—P. 347. Fit to live. Giac. Camilla !— Woman! — Stop!] 
This is quite equal in time to the ten-syllable Iambic, — the em¬ 
phasis in the three last words of the preceding verse being on “ art/’ 
The regular measure however may be observed, by simply substitu¬ 
ting “ Worthy ” for “ Fit,” and putting the emphasis on “ not.” But 
the passage loses thereby strength and propriety. “ Fit ” is the 
word Camilla would have used. 
























PREFATORY NOTE 


TO 

THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS. 


It is not ray fault that this comedy is written. I should willingly 
have been at peace even with the small pretenders who prototype 
its characters; but they would not let me. All the personal conse¬ 
quences of its publication must rest with me alone. My book¬ 
seller has in it no interest but that of a commission-merchant, — 
which is less than some of its famous persons enjoy in the abortion 
and assignation advertisements of their daily issue. 

L. 0. 

321 West Nineteenth-Street. 

January 26, 1868. 






4 






* 









* 































THE SCHOOL FOE CRITICS 


A NATURAL TRANSFORMATION 


MDCCCLXVII — VIII 







CHARACTERS 


Sus Minervam, A.M., LL.D.; Editor of the Ethnical Quarterly j 
Review. 

Anicula, Editress , under Bodkin , of the Ethnos. 

Fledgling, Literary Critic , under Flunky Weathercock , 0/ the j 
Hotchpot Hours. 

Deadhead, Literary Critic , under Polyphemus , 0 / £7ie Hotchpot 


Cryer. 


Heartandiiead, a retired Author and Critic. 

Atticus, Literary Reader for the Brookbank Publishing-house. 
G-alantuom, Literary Critic of the Hotchpot Civis. 

Saltpeter, ^ 

Brimstone, V Underground gentlemen , on a mundane excursion. 
Charcoal, J 


Scene. Slanghouse-Square and its neighborhood , in Botch J 



City. 

Time. That occupied by the action. 








THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Act the First 

Scene. A street , at its opening into Slanghouse-Square. 

Enter 

Brimstone, Saltpeter and Charcoal, encountering. 

Brim. Well, old Salt (since our Hell-coin’d names, 

Nor our Heaven-stamp’d either, can here be given), 
Missest thou not those jolly blue flames, 

Which, though — not quite as soft 
As the smokeless rays aloft 
In the region men call Heaven — 

They kept us mostly waking 
With a something like heart-aching, 

And never promis’d slaking 
Like the one day Earth’s hell claims 






404 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


For a solace out of seven, 

Yet were bliss supreme, I swear, 

To the weariness we are driven 
To encounter in this air ? 

Salt. The weariness ! disgust. 

Why, Brim, thou ’rt losing fire. 

* Man’s treachery, his lust, 

His ferocity- What boots 

Comparing them with brutes ? 

These things wake mirth, not ire. 

The trait which stirs my spleen 
Is to find the beast so mean. . 

Brim. But then own it, as is just, 

All Hell holds no such liar. 

Char. That is because we have no Press. 
Although we dabble so largely in steam, 

We cannot throw off ream by ream 
Of lies and nonsense, I must confess. 

’T is an institution that should be ours. 

Its sire was help’d by the Devil they say. 

I saw on the wall of a house one day 
A picture announcing a new old play. 

A printing-press stood in the sky, 

Held up by a cloud, while on a floor, 

In a redtail’d coat which he never yet wore, 
Stood who do you think old Faust before, 
And pointed to the machine on high; 

Who but the chief of the Infernal Powers ? 
Salt. Had the thing been stuck in a hole below, 




ACT I. 


405 


It had show’d too plainly its use you know,— 

As they use it here in Slanghouse-Square. 1 
| Char. What name is that ? 

Salt. One of apery, 

In all humility stolen, I hear, 

By the loose-hing’d Weathercock quivering here, 
From his ponderous model across the sea. 

In front is the palace in rogues abounding, 

Who draw from the public pot their fare, 

And openly and at all times dare 
What to us is perfectly astounding, 

Who scent more filth in this upper air 
Than would cover all ITell and leave to spare 
Out of its fathomless superabounding. 2 

On that right-hand corner, half sharp, half flat, 
With perpetual simper and old white hat, 

The rider of hobbies plies his trade, 

Who thinks the rest of mankind were made, 

At least that are male, 

To be led by the nos.e and follow his tail. 
Ambitious and hankering for display, 

But not so genteel 
By a very great deal 
As Flunky Weathercock over the way, 

He joy’d to become an arch-traitor’s bail, 

And journey’d far 
To the Southern star 
To take the seraphical man by the hand 
Who fill’d with ashes and blood this land. 






406 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Char. I understand. 

’T was an offer for station. 

Brim. A bid for the votes of the Southern nation, 
When they come again to have command. 

He wanted to cut the Union in two, 

And would do it in four, 

If so it would give him three chances more 
To set his white head white and black heads o’er, 
Which is what the Weathercock would not do. 
Salt. They are going to make an envoy, they say, 

Of Flunky. 

Brim. Aha! That is why, one day, 

To get appointed, 

To the People’s Anointed 

He veer’d, then the next, to be confirm’d, 

To the People’s deputies daintily squirm’d, 

And turn’d his tail the other way ? 5 
Salt. But let him alone, he is not our game. 

He is mean enough, like his fellows around, 

To put, if unseen, his nose in the ground, 

But sets too much store by an honest name 
(That bauble, you wot, human knaves have found 
To dazzle fools and their wits confound) 

To eat dry sawdust and swallow flame. 

4 

Behind you, — turn round, — 

There is Bodkin’s Ethnos , that olio sheet 
Where stale pretension and jargon meet, 

Affected science, dogmatic cant, 

And ignorance glaz’d by amusing rant, 



ACT I. 


And wliat to us three makes its charm complete, 
An air of candor, high-pitch’d yet sweet, 

Which Sus Minervam himself can’t beat. 

’T is there we are bound. 

Char. For what ? 

Salt. Thou shalt see. 

If the little old woman, whose girls there prepare 
The dirty linen for public wear. 

Should prove short-handed and pitch on me, 

Why then Sus Minervam, A.M., LL.D., 

May add three points to his double degree. 

Come, Charcoal, Brim, let us onward fare. 

Brim. But give us to know of this mystery. 

Char. And what our Master may want of us three. 
Salt. So ’t is something to do, 

What recks it ? You two 

Are weary like me of this sluggish air. 

But this much is given 
Ye both to know: 

There is a fellow who wrote of Heaven 
And human wo 

And all that stuff of the Cross you know, 

•* 

Who has ventur’d a dip in the lake below 
And fish’d us up, to give us brains. 

Brim. What -an impudent gift! 

Salt. More than ye think. 

To make us ramble like meft in drink, 

With fustian phrases and sense obscure, 

Would picture us falsely, to be sure, 








408 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


But would be worth the pains: 

For fustian maintains our name’s illusion 
With man who is dazzled by word-confusion, 

And finds magnificent and grand 
All that his noddle can’t understand, 

And weighty the thoughts from whose tangled skeins 
He fails to draw a conclusion. 

Sus and Anicula, Fledgling too, 

Though, like his master, he points both ways, 

Help us a great deal nowadays 
By keeping this great point in view, — 

Save when his hireling pencil strays 
From the false and absurd to what is true. 

Char. So lucid Longfellow got his due. 

Brim. Not when he labor’d to give to view 
The fanciful picture the Tuscan drew 
Of a place that is known to me and you. 

Salt. Ay, Fledgling was then in his element, 

Serving the Devil with double intent: 

To lick up with neatness 
The spittle of greatness, 

And parade his own mock sentiment. 

* 

Thus the uncouth phrase and the limping line 
Were held out to asses as grain divine, 

And stirring up rubbish he cry’d, “Oh fine! ” 4 
Brim. What would ye have ? Was not Swinburne’s stuff, 
And Buskin’s and Emerson’s affectation, 

And Carlyle’s Dutch made bright enough 
To Fledgling’s ratiocination ? 



ACT I. 


409 


Though the general mass of the reading nation, 
Beating the thicket for explanation, 

Might sooner guess at futurity, 

Seeing we, who are us’d to what is tough 
And the brightness that makes obscurity 
In our underground relation, 

Were wrapt in amaze 
By the multiple blaze, 

And lost our calculation. 

Salt. Why you’ve grown quite letter’d, old fellow Brim, 
Since in coat and breeches here sojourning! 

r Snm. ’T is part of my universal knowledge. 

I have the insight 
By infernal right, 

As Sus got his at College. 

I am not indeed A.M. like him, 

Nor mean to purchase the other degree, 

But I have an equal facility 
In affecting all kinds of learning. 

I think, had I a pen in hand, 

And a cylinder press at my command, 

Like Flunky, Brooks and Greeley, 

I might do a devilish deal of good, 

Like them, or the World, or Benjamin Wood, 

Though I cannot lie so freely. 

Salt. You shall do something better, and teach these fools, 
Especially Sus, and Bodkin’s piddler, 

A lesson yet new in the Critics’ schools, 

That they who dance must pay the fiddler. 

Vol. IV.— 18 






410 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 




Char. Old fellow, well said: 

One would think you were bred 
An apprentice here in Slanghouse-Square. 

Salt. ’T is the cruelest thing you could have said. 

I thought we devils had still some head, 

Despite of our brimstone air. 

But enough. Let us move. Ere the sun be gone 
To the West with his clouded nightcap on, 

Ye shall both of you see, 

And luminously, 

Into the pool of this mystery 
Whose bottom is visible only to me, 

And shall help me a comedy prepare. 

Char. Amen! as said on his knees Jeff Davis, 

When he pray’d “ From our enemies, 0 Lord, save us, 
And let them be damn’d ! ” 5 So mote it be ! 

I scent in the night-air a jolly spree. 

Brim. Pitch and naphtha ! ( I hate to swear — 

But Milton taught me. ) ’T will set us free 
From the chain of this damnable earth-ennui. 

Char. And for the rest may the Devil care. {Exeunt Didb. 

Enter 

Deadhead and Fledgling. 

Fledg. Well met, Caput Mort.: though our masters agree, 
Like two pickpockets, to scold each other, 

That is meant to blind the world, but binds not you and mi 
To us the phrase applies, 




















ACT I. 


411 


Crows pluck not out crows’ eyes; 

And we servants of the lamp, 

Though we call each other scamp, 

Yet, like beggars on a tramp, 

Are each to the other hail-fellow and a brother. 

Dead. Ay, ’t is nuts to see the crowd, 

Because we scold aloud, 

Think both of us too proud 

To shake each other’s paw and swig hobnob together; • 
But, let it rain, old fellow, 

They ’ll find the same umbrella 

Protects your stovepipe hat and my old felt from the 
weather. 

Fledg. Why, bravo! you improve: 

That’s a figure now I love. 

Don’t be angry if I put it in my Minor Notes to-morrow. 
Though, believe, I scorn to steal, 

Save when hard-up for a meal, 

Yet no one can object that now and then I borrow. 

Dead. Yery well; I ’ll take my turn. 

^ledg. Agreed. But I say, Dead, — 

Ah, you know not how I yearn 
To ask you on this head ! — 

Has your scribeship haply redd 
The drama on the Cross 

And those others- 

Dead. — To our loss 

Which some upstart bard- 

Fledg. You err; 








412 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


’T is an old hand at the game; 

That is plain. Besides, his name 
Fits the collar of the cur 
That snarl’d at us before 
For the blackguard stuff we wore 
And the lies we daily swore 
In the Press. 

As playwrights both ourselves, 

Who have had our trash by twelves 
Laid on the playhouse shelves, 

’T is to Number One we owe it, 

That our scorner, this d-d poet, 

Lack success. 

Have you redd him ? 

Dead. ’Faith, not I. 

Does it need to read, to damn ? 

Besides, old ’coon, I am, 

Like yourself, prodigious shy 
Of all writings where the style 
Is above the common run, 

Or where wit excludes low fun, 

Nor the author has beg-un 
To make it worth my while. 

Fledg. I like your humor, but not your facts ; 

You hint too plainly at certain acts 
Which we never commit in the Hotchpot Hours 
Dead. The devil you don’t! Now, by the Powers, 
That is too cool. 

Do you take me, Fledgy, to be a fool ? 




ACT I. 


413 


Know not all men, do not all men see, 

We differ in form, not in kind nor degree ? 

For scandalous tales of vice and fraud, 

And quack advertisements that serve the bawd, 

And abortionists’ invitations, 

For all that debauches both soul and mind, 

You are not an inch from us behind 
And our counters might change stations. 

Nay your Sunday sheet, which you loudly swore 
Was the people to serve and would end with the war, 
Peddles tales, as it spouted bombs before, 

And is one of our institutions. 

I should like to know what this all is for, 

If it is not done to get you more 
Of four-penny contributions ? 

You know we are both rogues in fine- 

Fledg. In the world’s sense, Heady, but not in mine, 

Who hold that safety and honor bid, — 

Here both combine, — 

That we should of this high-topt fellow get rid, 
Whose old-time light, that will not be hid, 

Will clap on our bushel an extra lid, 

And make it more hard to dine. 

So be cautious, my jewel. 

Dead. Be not afraid. 

For all some folk in the woods may deem us, 

We never do nothing unless we are paid, 

Me and my governor, Polyphemus. 

Fledg. You ’re right, by Jove. Had the cash been tipt, 








414 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


I don’t think any such flam had slipt 
As those into which Bodkin’s quarto dipt. — 

Bead. No, none of us are so squeamous. 6 
Fledg. You are right, old boy, though your grammar is 
But I'm not much us’d to grammar myself. 

The whole of Murray’s not worth a song. 

It hampers genius ; to get along, 

All that we need is the love of pelf. 

But let us be cautious, and keep to our tracks, 

For our pride’s defence- 

Dead. And the Revenue Tax. 

You see I am sprightly and well may meddle 
With playing my governor’s second fiddle. 

Are you off for your post ? I am bound to mine, 
Where opposite sandstone our marbles shine. 
Fledg. Well, remember to give that fellow a line. 
Dead. Be sure, if — you know — inspiration lacks. 
Fledg. You need not read him: I sha’n’t myself — 
Save a page to seem knowing. Misrepresentation 
Of authors, though blinding the innocent nation, 
Lays never their critics on the shelf. 

You know we stab behind their backs. 

Our scraps will die, and ourselves unknown 
Can indulge our malice and not be known : 

None asks if a David have hurl’d the stone, 

Or a ragamuffin beggar. 

If the world but knew 
It was I and you, 

We should hardly dare say what we do, 








ACT I. 


415 


And our pottage would prove soupe maigre. 

It is such a delight, 

To perch on a stool, 

And write dunce and fool, 

Under the shade of the veil’d gas-light, 

And know on the morrow 
The author in ire, or it may be in sorrow 
If the creature is poor, 

Has a sickly wife and a starving child, 

Will find himself by a stroke of the pen- 

Dead. A stab in the back. 

Fledg. Ay, — for ever exil’d 
From the coveted Eden of famous men, 

And, door by door, 

Seek in vain for a publisher evermore ! 

Is n’t that to be mighty ? It adds, my dear, 
Breadth to our breast and a bead to our beer. 
Dead. Let us have some, Fledgy. 

Fledg. You soul, I am here. 

Exeunt affectionately together: 













416 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Act the Second 
Scene. Anicula's Sanctum. 

Enter Sus Minervam. 

Sus. Out ? What a pity ! It is more than a pity. 

What shall I do ? This monstrous Hotchpot City, 

Too small a cradle for my pregnant fame, 

Will frown indignant on my letter’d name, 

If I, who am its snuff, its salt, its scalpingknife and cautery, 
Lack pepper for this pupping quarter’s Quarterly. 

The case is bad, and there is no evasion. 

She comes ! I will address her grandly, 

That she may listen to me blandly 
And minister unto my great occasion. 

Enter Anicula. 

Thou stay and glory of Bodkin’s Press, 

From its primal T to its ultimate letter, 

0 render me help in my sore distress, 

And I’ll be forever your debtor! 

0 et prcesid'ium et dulce decus' meum\ 

Have you no more “ rejected ”, to give me some ? 

Shake up your old drawers, and find me a few 


ACT II. 


417 


To swell out my Quarterly Review ; 

Oh do! 

Anic. Plague on you, Sus! can’t you scribble, yourself? 
I sold you the last rubbish on my shelf. 

There was the scandal of the Piedmont poet, 

With its pretended knowledge and false taste, 

And its translations, which, not done in haste, 

Yet were so vapid that they seem’d to show it. 

And there was the fustian stuff on Rowley, 

Who is made to declaim so rantipolly, 

While his critic agape cries “ Grand! Sublime !” 
Sus. Stop there, old angel. ’T was not my crime. 

Little vers’d as I am in nature or art, 

I saw both were outrag’d, from the start. 

Amus’d at once, and not less astounded. 

I fear’d all Hotchpot would be confounded, 

At the time. 

Have pity, that’s a dear good soully! 

I am in such a muss, 

And have shaken the dust from my wit-bag wholly. 
Anic. Don’t bother me, Sus. 

My girls are at work, and’t is all they can do 
To make shifts for me, let alone for you. 

But I know of a means : it is entre nous. 

Sus. Sure; I ’ll take ten times my oath. 

Anic. As you will not keep it, one time will do. 

There is an odd fellow will serve us both. 

He was here but now, will be here again. — 

Sus. 0 my delight! 

18* 







418 


THE SCHOOL FOE CRITICS 


Anic. Old boy, be quiet! 

Would you rob my virtue? 

Sus. No, to be plain, 

There is none of it left. 

Anic. You beast, I deny it. 

I have lent it at times to you and to others, 
Stock-gamesters and politicians bold, 

But ’t is as immaculate as my old mother’s 
The day I was foal’d. 

Sus. Well? 

Anic. But hands off! This fellow, who is 
A queer sort of devil and much of a quiz, 

Works quickly and cheaply. 

Sus. Cheaply ? 0 joy ! 

He may aid me for nothing! 

Anic. Very likely, my boy. 

You are not very nice, 

In phrases or sense, 

(Which lessens the price,) 

And if you dispense 

With fixing the theme- 

Sus. Let him scrawl what he will. 

So I have not to pay and the scribble will sell. 

Anic. In fact, he charg’d nothing for mine. ’T was a favor. 
So I let him select. There’s a tragical shaver 
Whom he wanted to crush, for making Hell logical, 

For giving man’s passions to Judas Iscariot, 

For not putting Christ in a fiery chariot, 

And, with syntax and prosody, 




ACT 'II. 


419 


Which ought not in the Cross to be, 

Bowing respect to laws etymological. 

Sus. Heh ! heh ! that is funny ! 

A similar jumble came posted to me. 

And as the confector requested no money- 

Anic. Confectioner. 

Sus. No. ’T is confector I mean. 

I us’d the phrase learnedly, wittily too. 

With a double-entendre quite fresh, smart, and clean, 
As, in one of its senses, your Webster will show. — 
Anic. But you spoke of a jumble. 

Sus. And it was one, I trow, 

A jumble, old woman, to you and to me. 

As the mixer was flippant enough to seem airy, 

I stitched him with Rowley and Victor Alfieri, 

In my last Quarterly, — which see. 

It is there as it reach’d me, and in no wise doth vary 
Except in the learning which fits LL.D. 

Anic. ’T was the same fingers doubtless that jumbled for me. 

Mine was sheer lies from beginning to end. 

Sus. And mine. Greater nonsense there could not well be. 
Not even boy Chatterton’s trumpery 
Was worse. But still ’t was the Devil’s god-send. 

That nondescript mishmash on Calvary. 

Anic. Mum ! Fledgling comes. Don’t be tempted to brag 
Of our gratis co-worker. Do as you see me. 

Sus. I will do as befitteth my double degree, 

Rest assur’d, ma’am, nor let the cat out of the bag. 






420 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


i 

Enter Fledgling. 

Ante. Good day, Fledgling Minor. 

Fledg. Old dame, how do’ do ? 
You have done a fine thing. Sus Minerv’, how are you 
I thought to praise one, and I find two instead. 

But as your duality, 

In this critical matter 
Whereof I would chatter, 

Presents but a unity in its reality, 

You are both so alike 
In what both have said 
(Believe not I flatter ; 

Any fool it would strike 
As well as myself in my strong ideality), 

You have lost, sir and ma’am, each the nice speciality 7 
Of individuality, 

And, a great generality, 

i 

I may group the totality 

Of my pensees on both on this point ’neath one head. 
Anic. Little Fledgy, you ’re learning, 

I see, in your yearning, 

Your proud spirit burning 
And claws of earth spurning, 

Your small wings to spread. 

You ’ve consulted Ralph-Waldo, I opine, on that head. 
Excuse me for going. As Sus and I 
Are to be in your panegyric blended. 

What is aim’d at him, if for both intended, 













ACT II. 


421 


Will hit me too in the very eye. 

You have left I see your Minor key 
And are strumming it largely on Major-C. 

But pray don’t take either of us for a flat, 

While playing your sharps. Sus, remember the cat. 

[Exit. 

Fledg. What does the harridan mean by that ? 

Sus. I vow’d not to tell. 

But as in the Hours — ’t was on Sunday, ’t is true; 

That is Flunky’s venality, comes not of you — 

But as in the Hours you quoted me freely, 

Much more so than G-reeley, 

And so made me sell, 

I will tell you in confidence ; 

But do, pray, be on your fence, 

And not the fact spill. 

Fledg. To one only, — Deadhead. 

Sus. Him only then. — Well, 
What is the stuff which we write so alike upon ? 

Fledg. u Virginia” and “Calvary.” 

Sus. Homer, and Dante- No, the Devil- You see, 

There’s an odd sort of fellow we both chanc’d to strike 
upon, 

Who made the same nonsense for both him and me. 

But I improv’d mine, as behoov’d my degree, 

And made my points good 
By Fernando Wood, 

As evidence of my Latinity. 

Fledg. Made your points good ! Unmade them, you mean. 










422 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Why even Fernando would beat you there clean, 

Or, as Dante’s great double would say, “ dead beat.” 
What a phrase is that! 8 — If you want to lie 
Against an author, you should not quote, 

My little old fellow, but do as did I 
In my Minor Note, — 

For his language I knew would reveal the cheat. 

Sus. Don’t call me old; for I’m yet in my prime. 

I am perhaps little, but oh ! sublime. 

What I said then of Homer and Virgil and Dante 
Proves my knowledge and genius, albeit’t was scanty. 
Fledg. It had better been out though, or laid on the shelf 
For another occasion, for on my blind soul, 

Though I don’t know much of those Grecians myself, 
As my time is not given to study but pelf, 

There was nothing of fitness or sense in the whole. 

The exordium of an epic tale 
And the opening scene of a tragedy, 

Although, like the multiple flimsy thread 
The spider passes from out her tail, 

They may both be spun from a single head, 

Are not the same web any dunce may see, 

Nor was there the least eoncinnity 
In all the rest you said. 

Sus. Why do you prate thus unto me ? 

Am I not an LL.D. ? 

And A.M. too, as it is express’d ? 

A fledgling — not of your family, 

But of that lofty scholastic nest, 




ACT II. 


423 


Which in all countries, as late I said, 

And in all ages, — before there were 
Or scholars or schools, you may infer, 

Where fools are taught to scribble for bread, — 9 

On its annual brood is made to confer- 

Fledg. Gratis ? 

Sus. 0 no! that were to err — 

Those letters which at our tails attest 
We are ting’d of the color of the dead. 

Fledg. But that must be hard ? 

Sus. Hard ! Look at me. 
See how I flourish my double degree. 

There is nothing I give to the world, my dear, 
But there my tailpieces both appear, 

To signify my brains are Sear; 

Yet I am not paler, as you may see, 

Than if I belong’d not to the blest. 

In Heidelberg, so runs the tale, 

Where they keep these tickle-me-ups for sale, 

A British noble got LL.D. 

Conferr’d on his horse. 10 

Fledg. You joke. 

Sus. ’T is true. 

Fledg. Why not his ass ? 

Sus. Had he so thought best. 
And why not as well as for you or me ? 

A letter’d ass — “ baud absurdum est.” 

’T is u fa,cere well reipublicas.” 11 
Fledg. What’s all that gibberish ? 








424 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Sus. Learned words 
I wear at top, like Panza’s curds, 

To keep my brainpan soft and warm. 

They have no meaning, but do no harm, 

And help my LL.D. A.M. 

Whenever I sport that double degree, — 

Which is four times a year; and you must admit 
There is not an ass it would better fit, 

I bray so mellifluously. 

But that is self-praise. But, you made me warm. 
Fledg. Excuse, old fellow : I meant no harm. 

Here, shake our fist. 

There is one thing, however, we all forget: 

This bard, they say, is a satirist, 

And may turn the tables on us yet. 

Though I fear not, I ; 

For Duyckinck, on whom we may rely, — 

His book is a great one — bigger by half 
Than Webster’s, or the Bible; 

Some of the copies are bound in calf! - 

Sus. A feature perhaps to make one laugh, 

Who knows that its censure is mostly chaff 
And its praises are a libel. 

Fledg. It may be so. I never read 
Such gallimaufries, not I indeed ; 

I should grope there in vain for fruit or seed 
To stock my garden of Minors. 

But Duyckinck says, he had no success, 

His Vision “fell stillborn from the press; ” 




ACT II. 


425 


Perhaps because he lack'd cleverness, 

Not to shine, but to use the shiners. 

Sus. Then Duyckinck says what is not true, 

And what could not be such he very well knew, 
As is patent to me, though not to you 
Who were yet in the nest. But the fact is this: 
The hairy babe was a bouncing boy, 

And crow’d and laugh’d to his daddy’s joy, 

And to the heirless neighbors’ annoy, 

Who envied him his bliss. 

But he found ere long its nurses were cheats: 
They took their wages, but spar’d their teats, 

To feed their own brood which did not pay. 

So the father took the child away. 

Fledg. In plainer words ? 

Sus. He stopp’d the sale, 

By cutting off the book’s supply : 

A fact he himself took care to imply 
At a somewhat later day. 

Such books as that do not often fail. 

It is true, neither you nor I was then 
In the trade which puts down rising men, 
Although there was then black-mail. 

You may judge though Duyckinck’s malignity, 
From the misspell’d name at the article’s top 
To the close where he calls him a travel’d fop, 
And has the astounding audacity, 

For a work like that, and from such as he, 

To deny him, except as an oddity, 



426 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


A niche in his hall of letters. 

I know not what other men may think, — 

Some find sweet odors in things that stink, — 

But it would not be with his betters. 

Fledg. Hi! hi! do you laud him thus ? yet choose 
To scribble him down ? x 

Sus. Hot more I deem 
Than others in heart have done and do 
Who find a pleasure like curs, it would seem, 

In lifting the leg at a profitless muse, 

While they yelp as a publisher’s puffier; 

Than Ethnos , the long Round Robin , and you, 

And your ape across the Eastern stream, 

The Wart- City Buzzard's stuffier. 

However, the fellow should be content, 

If he is only a curious ornament 

To which Heaven has nothing substantial lent, 

As with Milton, or even with Beattie, 

That the Barnum of letters has spar’d him a nook 
In the rummage-drawer showshop for general look, 
His two-volume Cyclopedei'acal book 
Of American literati. 

Fledg. So, so ; that is frank. And yet yet you admit 
Against him what neither has sense nor wit! 

Was it done in a Duyckinckish splenetic fit, 

Or is it your love to scoff? 

Sus. For an ass, you have got in the highway for once. 
Like you, I love to call u Dull! ” and “ Dunce! ” 

It makes one seem sensible for the nonce. 



ACT II. 


42 * 


Then, T hop’d he would buy me off. 

Fledg. You try’d that game against the College. 

But Prasses your hints would not even acknowledge, 
And sneer’d both Freshman and Soph. — 

But why did you not, for deception’s sake, 

Between your nonsense a difference make 
And the stuff in Bodkin’s quarto ? 

The faults in grammar and English alone, 

Without the falsehoods and impudent tone 
And puerile pertness, would any one strike 
As drawn from one ditch : in fact, they are like 
As Port is to Oporto. 

JSus. What matters it ? The world may say 

What it likes ; it may call you Beaumarchais; 

Me Pindar, or G-reeley Cupid : 

’T is known I buy up all hackney’d and tame 
Rejected articles. Where is the blame ? 

They ’re the only stuff for which I pay, 

At least in the literary way, 

And I ’Id swear the Ethnos does the same, 

Though it never was else than stupid. 

Fledg. In one thing, though, you may claim to be 
More than its match. 

Sus. In hypocrisy ? 

Why yes, in that, and post-mortem scandal, 

No prick-fame can hold to me a candle. 

The Round-Robin try’d it on Calvary , 

Which he damn’d with a slaver of sympathy, 

And smil’d like a king benignant: 





428 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


But’t is Bowery-acting to my pretence 
Of friendliness and benevolence, 

Where impertinent and malignant. 

You try’d it in the post-mortem line, 

And fancy’d you’d done it egregiously fine, 

When out of your press issu’d Byron a swine; 

But look how I Circe’d Alfieri! 

Fledg. ’T was done in my finest retributive mood. 

Because Alger, in his Solitude , 

Had blown him upward as extra good, 

A kind of Castalian fairy. 12 

Sus. Eh ! I thought you lik’d such soap-bubble stuff. 

Fledg. When not too frothy, and quantum suff. 

Sus. ’T is your Swinburne over again in prose, 

But a little more liquid, with more repose, 

And Emerson’s verse without rhyming close 
And a devilish deal less tough. 13 

Fledg. What then ? we must worship such men, while yet 
Their fame is up and their life not set: 

In secret thinking, I go as you go, 

And hold Ralph-Waldo, albeit my pet, 

As pompous an ass as Victor Hugo, 

Who seems to think it his right divine 
To bray for all others asinine, 

And, hating the right divine of kings, 

Is in his pride and his ostentation, 

His spirit of logical domination, 

Elation and affectation, 

The very tyrant he prates of and sings. 14 



ACT II. 


429 


Sus. Eu'ge! that ’s truth without dilution. 

I cannot see how it got into your sconce. 

After that mouthful, my Minorite dunce, 

^ ou may lie for a month and have absolution. 

Fledg. But don’t let out that it was my say : 

Such notions would ruin my trade at once. 

Here hobbles Anicula this way. 

I am off. It is more than I can do, 

To parry and thrust both with her and with you. 

Enter Anicula. 

Good day, old lady; I ’ll in by and by, 

When no one can come ’twixt your beauties and I. 

Anic. And me. 

Fledg. Never mind. You might pass the bad grammar, 
For the soft soap it carries. [Aside.'] The impertinent! 
d—n her ! 

’Bye, Sus Minervam, A.M., LL.D. 

The greatest critic that ever could be 
Would be one to unite 

The crepuscular glow of your learning’s rushlight 
With Anicula’s sterling vacuity. [Exit. 

Enter Saltpeter. 

Anic. He has vanish’d in time, the magpie and ape. — 

Here enters a beast of another shape, 

And bird of another feather. 






430 


THE SCHOOL FOE CKITICS 


’T is the gentleman who, 

I mentioned to you, 

Would do for us both together. 

Let me make you acquainted. 

This short sturdy man, who looks like a fool, 

Is not so, Mr. Salt, in despite of his jaws. 

In the Heaven of letters he sings psalms to our sainted, 
Gives pills in our critico-purgative school, 

And is Master of Arts and a Doctor of Laws. 

Salt. What’s his name ? 

Anic. Sus Minervam. 

Salt. A great one. 

Anic. A beater 1 

Sus. And pray what is yours ? 

Salt. Mine is simple Saltpeter. 

Sus. That's The cart draws the lior,se. 

As we say it in Latin, 

Bovem' trahit currus: but ox falls less pat in. 

Peter Salt, not Salt Peter, I take it of course. 

Salt. No, it is as I tell you. 

Sus. Then Salt , I opine, 

Was the name of your mother. 

Salt. No mother was mine. 

Sus. Then your father’s. 

Salt. I had none. 

Sus. A foundling, ha, ha! 

A bastard ? 

Salt. If’t please you. Like others, I know not 
The source of my.being, though not blind to my true lot. 



ACT II. 


431 


For aught that I know, I might claim for papa 
That doughty Apostle whose thin blade’t is said 
Circumcis’d Malclius’ ear 
Without shaving his head. 

'us. You mean your papa’s oldtime foresire, ’t is clear. 

As his name too was Simon, 

That’s a poor stock to climb on, 

And, without amphibology, 

Your Scripture chronology 

Has beeif, Mr. Salt, much neglected, I Tear. 

Salt. Be that as it may, 

This truly I say: 

Like yourselves, I came into this world without will; 
But, unlike yourselves, when I find I’ve my fill, 

I shall haste to go out of it, of my accord, 

So soon as my governor whispers the word. 

Sus. Who is your governor ? ’T is not the Lord ? 

You don’t look so pious. 

Anic. Ho, to judge by his eye, 

One would think some one else had his Saltship for ward. 
Sus. I like him for that; that fire would imply 
He’s a deuse of a fellow. 

Salt. I am. Will you try ? 

I work on long credit; sometimes gratis, you ’ll find. 
Does it suit, who my governor is never mind. 

You will both of you know him at no distant day. 

He keeps long accounts, and, as you’ve seen by the sample, 
Has taught me to follow his princely example. 

And be not exacting for present pay. 





432 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Sus. You ’re a jewel of a man, Peter Salt or Salt Peter. 

Let us strike up a bargain. 

Anic. My girls call me out. 

I ’ll be back to you soon, [going. 

Sus. [aside.'] Salty dear, don’t entreat her 
To stay with us. Both will do better without. 

[Exit Anic. 


You must know 


Don’t betray me! 

• / 

Salt. No, word of a devil! 


Sus. What an oath*! What an odd fish you arel 

You must know, 

Our lady-friend’s intellect’s under the level: 

She is not an A.M., as I was long ago, — 

( I’m a Doctor of Laws too, my Quarterlies show. ) 
Therefore put off on her all your flatness and drivel, 

If you have of those articles much to dispense. 

Salt. Sus Minerv’, LL.D., I would not be uncivil, 

But, except when I practice a little deception, 

They are products to which I can make no pretence. 

Sus. They belong to the Dailies, I know, by prescription, 

And to Minor-Note Fledgling by eminence. 

Salt. There was some, it is true, in the piece I last sent you, 

( I own it to show I would not circumvent you;) 

But in future I ’ll give you misrepresentation, 

Mock learning, bad syntax, and word-ostentation, 

A truly illogical argumentation, 

With a sparkle too of vituperation ; 

And o’er all and through all, and ’mid scintillation, 

Shall lie an amusing want of sense. 







A.CT II. 


433 


Sus. Dear Mr. Salt! As from sympathy 

You serv'd her for nothing, you will do this for me ? 

Salt. I will do it, dear Doctor, because it will be 
For my governor’s delectation. 

Sus. And for nothing? 

Salt For nothing. But this is to say: 
Better count the cost before we commence. 

Though I charge not, the Devil may be to pay. 

• Sus. I am us’d to that in a general way : 

So make haste, and damn the expense. 

, Salt. But in all that I promise you flourish already. 

Mac'te virtu te ; be bold and be steady. 

Sus. Ha, ha, you have learning! That is a new charm in you. 
I will make you my partner! 

Salt. I should prove rather warm for you. 
I use all the tongues of civilization 
By an anti-apos'tolic inspiration, — 

And certain more beside. 

But let us return to my observation, 

» From which we are straying wide. 

You have in yourself all you ask me to give; 

But I ’ll make you in letters the top of the nation, 

And your name for ever to live. 

Sus. How, how, how ? 

Salt. Meet me about a half-hour from now. 

Sus. Say where ! 0 where ? 

Salt. In the Park, at the side on Slanghouse-Square. 

I will introduce you to two friends there 
Who will teach you to prick up your ears in the air. 

Vol. IV.— 19 








434 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Sus. I’m the happiest dog beyond compare I 
Salt. Hush ! here comes the old sow. 

Be off now. 

Sus. Bow, wow! 

Sus gets upon all fours, 
makes a demi-wlieel on his hands, and Exit 
yelping delightedly. 





ACT III. 


435 


Act the Third 15 

Scene. The Parle fronting Slangliouse-Square. 

Enter 

Atticus, Heartandhead and G-alantuom. 

Gal. Here lies my street, at the right. Let us stop. 

Att. But not, for awhile yet, the question drop. 

Have you ever redd Cato? 

Gal. To wonder and laugh. 

More than half is mere prose. 

Att. And the rest of it chaff. 
There is nothing of nature in all, and the poet, 

If conscious of passion, was unable to show it. 

A schoolboy had written his love-scenes as well. 

To affect to compare then Virginia with Cato , 

Which has scarce one good part, save the passage on Plato, 
To" name Rowe and Young, and the public to tell 
That our author was tutor’d in this or that school 
Is to read without books. 

Gal. Or to talk like a fool. 

Why our tragedy-scribe, as the pert lady styles him 
Who does up the Ethnos’ old linen for new, 

Has made his own school; though, while Round-Robins 
sell 



436 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


And knaves that are Masters of Asses revile him, 

He will have to wait long for a pupil or two. 

Att. That is said very well. 

In the teeth of the proneurs of Swinburne and Ruskin, 
He has dar’d to talk clearly, has taken from passion 
Her stilts, and despite of prescription and fashion 
Has refus’d to put monsters in sock or in buskin. 

But not in his diction 
And sentiments merely 
Makes he Nature his guide ; 

But in the connection 

And sequence of incidents, where others clearly 
Set nothing by space, be it little or wide, 

And time with its intervals put quite aside. 

And in costume not less. 

In the manners and thought-modes which mark out each 
nation, 

He has labor’d more faithfully such to express 
Than any before him, without contestation, 

Whate’er his success. 

You, G-alantuom, in your frank declaration, 

Have sought to commend him as pure in his style.' 

I have honor’d him more. 

He has swept clean the Stage which was filthy before, 
And made men be merry without being vile. 

Which is something still better, and I think more sublime, 
Than his lifting his tones without word-ostentation 
And compressing his Acts in the limits of time. 

Heart. The Round Robin labor’d, knew not what to do. 





ACT III. 


437 


Its conscience prick’d sore, but the author was new. 

So it damn'd with faint praise , and, with impudent leer. 
Affecting the gracious, taught others to sneer. 

Gal. For the trait you mention, 

That impudent air of condescension, 

Which must have made our poet smile, 

And reminded him of the plate where you see 
Beside a mastiff a little cur sitting 
On a footing of borrow’d equality, 

With an air of consequence the while, 

Which says as might words, if words were fitting, 

“ Don’t mind that big fellow, but look at me. 

I patronize him. To a certain degree** ♦ 

You may let him have your attention.”- 

Heart. I remember the print; the'inscription redd, 

“ Impudence and Dignity.” 

Had the artist the Round Robin in his head, 

Feeling big, and trying to look full-bred, 

With its little rump near Calvary ? 

Gal. Well, so far as the trait you mention, 

That funny assumption of condescension, 

I am with you, but not in the good intention 
You seem to assign that pretentious sheet. 

Yet, in its preposterous conceit 

It tells us serenely it holds him no poet! 

Then quotes and misquotes, and, in order to show it, 
Makes none of its righteous selections complete, 

For fear that its readers should scent out the cheat 1 
Heart. You forget one act of liberal dealing. 









438 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


It has honor’d the Devil, who is great in oration, 
With a good long piece of declamation, 

Which, it says, is the nearest to demonstration 
The author makes of poetic feeling. 

Gal. A piece of satirical reasoning ! blent 
With the kind of brimstone sentiment 
At vogue in the underground dominion ! 

In rhyme too ! 

Att. No doubt with a double intent, — 

The style of the drama to misrepresent, 

And offend the public opinion. 

Had he been a true critic, he would have known, 

• However lofty may be its tone, 

♦ 

Impassion’d, pathetic, pointed or strong, 

To dialogue Nature has rarely lent 
What is call’d poetical ornament. 

The noblest masters of tragic song 

Have shunn’d it as shuns our author, and he, 

By this truth of art and consistency, 

May reap honor late, but will keep it long. 

Gal. So I said, when extolling, what fools decry’d, 
Those two first comedies of his. 

His adherence to nature will not be deny’d 
By those who know what nature is. 

But Heartandhead differs. 

Heart. Not I indeed ; 

Those are main points in my critical creed. 

But I think the Round Robin err’d not of will, 
But spoke to the best of his knowledge and skill, 



ACT III. 


439 


With the grandly unconscious droll conceit 
In letters of all such empirics; 

For we find him assign 
The afflatus divine, 

Which he could not feel breathe in a single line 
Of our author’s most polish’d drama, 

Where think you ? ( it is to take by its bleat 
A bob-tail sheep for a lama ) 

To — oh the amazement! and oh the fun ! 

To travesty-singing Conington, 

Who makes the lord of hexameter verse 
His stately and deep-mouth’d epic rehearse 
In Marmion's four-foot lyrics. 

This shows that, though better in sense and breeding 
Than Flunky Weathercock’s scribbling-man, 

Kobin knows not what poetry is, and the plan 
With its incongruity exceeding 
Was nothing strange to the purblind possessor 
Of respect for an Oxford Latin-professor. 

Gal. All which is true. 

But, beginning to quote what well he knew 
Was both lofty in tone and ornate too, 

Why did he stop ? Because intent 
To keep from the light his false argument. 10 
Heart. Yet he gave, spread out to the public view, 

A foremost passage. 

Gal. Ah ! did he so ? 

Your own kind nature makes you slow 
To detect, beside ignorance, malice. 





440 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Quem-Deus-vult-perdere reckon’d o’er 
The fourteen true verses, then stupidly chose 
To invite their contrast with Knowles’s four 
Of vulgar, half-rythmical, fustian prose ; 

No doubt to our poet’s amus’d delight. 

For he took the pains both pieces to cite 
In a note to his story of Alice . 17 
Heart. I fear you are right. 

Att. Yet you, Heartandhead, in a just cause have done 
More to baffle these fools than of us either one, 
Although you have done it in vain. 

Galantuom wrote honestly, therefore well, 

But he did but his duty in his vocation. 

» 

And on me a like obligation fell 
In a different situation. 

I fulfill’d it too ; but in part with pain; 

As could not but be, 

Since I hold the theme of Calvary 
Too awful for human brain. 

But you, Heartandhead, who had given up long 
The critic’s function wherein you were strong, 

As declare both Poe and Irving, 

Without hope of renown took up agen 
Your kindly and truthful and graceful pen, 

To write back these false or misguided men 
To the path from which they were swerving. 

But the Nightly Pillar was deaf as a post. — 
Heart. Or something worse, for it kept me tost 
On hopes and doubts, afraid to say nay, 



ACT III. 


441 


Yet loath to assent, till, my patience lost, 

And asham’d to be put off day by day, 

I told him my mind, and in sheer disgust 
Took the manuscript bugbear away. 

It w T as worse however with Weathercock’s olio ; 

For Flunky is master ; the youth is not, 

Who does small chars for the dames of Hotchpot 
In the Nightly Pillar's folio. 

Flunky stammer’d and shuffled, and talk’d of space; 

Yet my piece was brief, but in eulogy, 

Which did not with his views agree, 

Although I gave him to understand 
The poet had never seen my face. 

Gal. I think it might have alter’d the case, 

Had you gone with cash in hand. 

Heart. Not with Flunky. 

Gal. I know not that: the men 
Who daily damn souls, for simple gain, 

By their lust-tales and calls to abortion, 

Would scarce be affected by shame or with pain, 

Thaffh critical piece by a classical pen 
Should pay in their sheets its proportion. 

Att. Well ? He stammer’d and shuffled — revolving, no doubt, 
How, an old acquaintance, he might get out 
Of the mesh of your application. 

’T is the Weathercock’s weakness, as is known, 

To vibrate, by opposite winds when blown, 

On his pivot of gyration. 

Heart. And to turn over patiently stone after stone, 

19* 







442 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


To explain liis tergiversation. 

Gal. Why true; but he’s quite outdone in that 
By the greasy saint in the old white hat, 

Who is like Yal Jean in the Miserables , — 

Who, liken’d to Christ in the strife for good , 18 
Yet tries more tricks to get out of the wood 
Than any beast in Fontaine’s Fables. 

Att. Well, — he shuffled and stammer’d and talk’d of space 

Heart. To consider how best he might with grace 
Refuse. 

Gal. Which must have made you smile 
For a half-breed of the mongrel journals, 

TTs’d to the >haste, 

The scissors and paste, 

Of his piebald minute-liv’d diurnals, 

To choke at an essay of yours. 

Heart. Meanwhile, 

The poet got wind of my design, 

Through a mutual friend, and thinking, ’t may be, 
Qui facit per alium facit per ,se, 

Begg’d, that for his sake, as well as mine, 

I would withdraw it definitively. 

Gal. ’T was a false pride, I think. 

Att. No, he who wrought 
Virginia , and thinks what his Ernestin taught, 

Could do no less, it appears to me. 

Heart. But is it not strange, this hostility 
In the hounds of the Press ? 

Gal. ’T is a personal quarrel. 












ACT III. 


443 


\ 


Who wrote Rubeta and Arthur Carryl 
Deserv’d no mercy, yon must confess. 

Head. Not had he libel’d by falsehood, as they. 

Gal. u The greater the truth, the worse the libel.” 

To prove your foes false, yet in what you say 
Be yourself the Bible, 

Is to turn on their foulness the glare of day. 

- Att. But who of these asses first open’d the bray 
Gal. The Ethnos ’ old lady, who spins a long yarn. 

Then the Master of Asses himself, who, they say, 
Buys all her old fodder to store in his barn. 

The result is so like, not alone in the strain 
Of shameless untruth, but assumption vain, 

They have had the same devil at work, ’t is plain, 
Whoever may be to pay. 

Heart. Let us go to the Ethnos and find how it is. 

Att. I’m not known- 

Heart. But I am to the petticoat quiz. 

’T is worth the essay. 

Come, Gfal'ant. 

Gal. Not now. As 1 told you, yon street, 
Where the Civis is, calls me away. 

But, in less than an hour, I will both of you meet 
At Anieula’s. 

Heart. Well then. 

Gal. Good day. 











444 


THE SCHOOL FOE CRITICS 


Act the Fourth 


Scene. As in Act III. 


Sus. Saltpeter. Brimstone. Charcoal. 


Salt. These are my friends. Let me make you known. 


Sus. And LL.D. 


Gentlemen, this is the great A.M. 



Salt. And LL.D., 

Who by natural right of his double degree, 

And that alone- 

Sus. No, my Quarterly. 

Salt. And his quarterly sheet of motley knowledge, 
To learning and letters makes more pretence 
With an infinitesimal dose of sense, 

Than was ever yet made, or will be hence, 

Qut of a Freshman’s class at college. 

Doctor Sus Minervam. 


Sus. Gentlemen both, 


I am not at all proud, being us’d to praise, — 

So am happy to make your acquaintance. Though loath, 
Permit me first a question to raise. 

What are your names ? Mr. Salt forgot, 

Too full of me, and my titles God wot, 

To name the characters in his plot. 












ACT IV. 


445 


Salt. This gentleman then, with the fiery nose, 

Is Mr. Brimstone, dull quiet stuff, 

If he only would keep cool enough ; 

But he is very apt to get blue. 

The other in the iron-gray clothes, 

And with so swart a hue, 

Is a light and spongy fellow, like you, 

Yet with a fibre you can’t see through, 

Though neither solid nor tough. 

His name is Charcoal. 

Sus. And yours Saltpeter ! 

With such a three, 

It appears to me, 

Unless you ’re a most outrageous cheater, 

It hardly is safe to keep company. 

Salt. That might be in another place. 

But here, unless you carry fire, 

You ’re as safe as vou would be in the mire 
Of your own journal's dirtiest place. 

Sus. That is safe enough; for I scarcely can keep, 
When I bogtrot there, my brains from sleep, 

And I get stuck fast, with big words and grammar, 
As often as waddling Anicula ( d — n her! ) 

Salt. And now to business. But first, a word. 

Have you faith, Hr. Sus, 

That the spirit-world ever comes to us, — 

I mean to the men of this earth, — as averr’d ? 

Sus. By whom ? 

Salt. Bjr hysterical girls who are able 







446 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


To talk with ghosts through the planks of a table 
And see through the mop of their chignons. 

Sus. Absurd 1 

Salt. You don’t believe then ? 

Sus. A question for me ! 

You forget I am a double L. D. 

I believe, Mr. Salt, in all that I see. 

All the rest, 

That will not admit of this ocular test, 

Mental or real, is — fiddlededee. 

' Salt. Some years now gone, 

Your great fool of a credulous town 
Got raving Irish-mad with joy, 

Because John Bull with your townsman’s aid, 

For his people’s sake and not your own, 

Beneath the ocean a means had laid 
To make by a flash his two shores as one 
And some day work to your annoy. 

Do you doubt the flash ? Well, you see it not. 

Sus. But I know its result. 

Salt. And as much might be said 
Of the visit of ghosts to this spot. 

But my friends will do more. 

You shall not only hear as the media do 
The ghosts of the dead, but shall see them too, 

As Saul did priest Samuel’s of yore. 

Sus. Do you deal with the Devil ? 

Salt. No; don’t you see 
How vers’d I am in Scripture lore ? 



ACT IV. 


447 


r 

It is the Devil who deals with me. 

S'us. Don’t take me for one you can play your tricks on, 
Like Ferdinand Mendez Pinto Dixon, 

Who found the female American nation, 

On a single married lady's confession, 

Committing puerperal repression 19 
By philosophical calculation, 

And because his apples were munch’d by one, 

Who found them more succulent than her own, 
Wish’d, for them all, that he might imbue ’em 
With the moral meaning of meum and tuum. 

Salt. I see you can tell the truth sometimes. 

Sus. When it does n’t jar with m}^ vocation, 

And thereby diminish the dollars and dimes. 

But what is that to our present relation ? 

You would have me believe I can see without eyes. 
Salt. Let not that surprise. 

How do you know that you see at all ? 

How many are with me here ? 

Sus. Why, two. 

No, Mr. Brim has slipp’d from view. % 

Brim. Bah ! I am here all the while, nor so small 
But that you might see, if you really saw. 

Sus. Then you stepp’d behind your fellow. 

Brim. Nor that 

Not the toe of my boots nor the crown of my hat, 
The hairs on my chin, nor the tips of my paw. 

Sus. Then you are the Devil. 

Brim. I never bore 








448 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


My swallow-tail’d pennant yet so high 
A.s the great three-decker who was of yore 
The Lord High Admiral of the sky. 

I may be though a devil for aught you know. 

But that is nothing to you, I trow, 

So that we pay the debt we owe 

And make you see what you doubted before. 

Sus. And keep your promise ? 

Salt. What else ? Your head 
Shall be a more than nine days’ wonder, 

And men who pay no regard to thunder 
Shall do it reverence instead. 

Sus. Before I die ? 

Salt. And after too. 

No man, as I said, 

Nor of the living nor of the dead, 

Shall prick up his ears as high as you. 

Sus. But say, Mr. Salt, when shall this be? 

Say where ? 0 where ? that I shall see 
That new-fangled tail to my double degree 

Which shall lift me up- 

Salt. Asinauricularly- 

Sus. With my ears prick’d up 

Like a terrier-pup- 

Salt. But longer- 

Sus. In perpetuity. 

Salt. Ay, when the Griswolds and Duyckincks are rotten, 
And all you have squirted yourself is forgotten, 

Save one divine article 









ACT IY. 


449 


Of which not a particle 

Shall be lost to the last of the Yankees begotten, 20 
Your name and your ears 
Shall escape the old shears 

Which, with rhymsters, is set to the thread of man’s years, 
And your skull shall as now be begetter of jeers 
When its insides are out like a herring’s that’s shotten. 
Sus. 0 delight! 0 the joy! 0 dearest of dears, 

0 Salty, say when is this prospect to be ? 

Salt. When it suits you to talk less and trot after me. 

Sus. And where ? Say where ! 

Salt. On the other side of Slanghouse-Square; 

Where Anicula’s lasses 
Soft-soap the asses, 

And do for the masses 
Other journalistic drudgery. 

Sus. But we shall be seen. 

Salt. What matters ? She was our go-between. 

Would you have your glory unnoted, unknown? 

Sus. Set on! 

With all your combustible matter in one. 

Though all three were ramm’d, 

Brimstone, Saltpeter and Charcoal, together— 

It don’t suit the jaws 
Of a Doctor of Laws 
To swear — but I’md — d 

If I’d mind your blow-up more than that of a feather. 

Set on ! set on ! 

With you, gunpowder three, 







450 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Or with you alone, 

Mr. Salt, I ’ll see, 

This night, this fun. 

Be it ghost or devil, 

Or both or one, 

To-night I ’ll revel 
In the feast of my fame, 

Or may my short name 
Still shorter be 

Of its single A.M. and its double L.D., 

On the front backside of my Quarterly. 

Charge , Brimstone, charge! on, Charcoal, on 
To the Devil, or victory ! 

Kicks over an astonished bootblack ^ 
and Exit in a fit of enthusiasm, 
followed by the three with various gestures of 
admiration. 




ACT IV. 


451 


Act the Fifth 
Scene. Anicula's Sanctum , as in Act II. 

Saltpeter. Charcoal. Brimstone. 

Brim. What keeps the fool ? 

Salt. Our LL.D. ? 

Brim. The Lord of the Ethnical Quarterly. 

Salt. In his haste to reach the rendezvous, 

The goose fell foul of an apple-wench, 

Upset her pippins, herself and bench, 

And got for himself in the kennel a drench 
Of the savory stew 
The Hotchpotian Irish corporation 
Keep mix’d for the people’s delectation, 

But which to the nostrils of me and you, 

Who are us’d to the ashes and sulphurous smell 
That thicken the air round the craters of Hell 
Where the fires burn blue, 

Is a damnable abomination. 

So, holding my nose, I left him there, 

Lock’d in the claws of the dirt-mobled fair, 
Both kicking and swearing, 

And each other’s clothes tearing, 

Two human beasts in a worse than beast’s lair. 




452 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Brim. I suppose we shall have to await his cleaning ? 
Salt. By Lucifer! yes, he will need repair 
After his pomologic careening. 

He is well pay’d already with kitchen-pitch, 

Both body and breech, 

And will get of calking more than he lists 
From the iron fingers and mallet fists 
Of the shipwright he dubb’d an Hibernian bitch. 
Brim. When he rights on his keel and floats in here, 
We will rig him with standing and running gear 

In such a wise- 

Char. His bowsprit at least, 

With its figurehead beast- 

Brim.. As will make old seamen blast their eyes. 

Salt. We shall give him his desert, in sooth. 

And here a contradiction lies : 

We have punish’d the bard for telling truth, 

The true in art, and in morals true, 

And now we shall make the critic rue 
His false instruction and peddling lies. 

Brim. But lo, where he comes ! 

Enter Sus. 

Salt. What has kept you so Ion 
Sus. The hussy was strong. 

Before I cut loose 

From her kedge in the gutter 

The bloody Philistin, 





ACT Y. 


453 


With her great raw-meat fist in 
My joles, while I utter, 

In distraction, a volley of tragic abuse, — 

And that not in Latin, 

Though the slang came quite pat in, 

From my quarterly use, — 

The uncircumcis’d jade- 

Salt. Uncircumcis’d? 

Sus. Ay. Don’t balk my narration. 

— Demands to be paid — 

Judge my rage, consternation! 

For her codlings that swim — not in buttery juice. 

Was I not too coddled? and in the same stuff? 

’T was a shame ! ’t was a fraud! But afraid of the ^rollop, 

Who continu’d to wollop 

About me and made the mob jolly enough, 

I agreed, when half-deafen’d, and after ado, 

To take for five nickels the nastiest two, 

Then skedaddled , ' n got wash’d, and came limping to you. 
Salt. ’T was a Bed-sea escape. You ’re a Sampson, ’t is plain. 
Brim. With an ass’s jawbone. 

Sus. Do not talk in that strain: 

I’ve ho wish to be vain: 

One Philistine dike her, though, might count for a twain. 
But you, Mr. Salt, are a nice friend in need! 

Salt. Why, what could I do ? 

There were just of you two. 

I thought you well pitted; 

And as you were fitted — 









454 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Sus. Y ou left me to bleed! 

Humph! Let us proceed. 

Salt. We are ready. Behold! 

The blinds are down-roll’d. 

Sus. And the candle burns blue. 

The devil! 

Salt. Hot yet. 

He ’ll not tread the scene till you get in his debt. 
Though the flame has his hue. 

Sus. Do turn on the gas, Mr. Salty, please do. 

Salt. Doctor dear, do not fret. 

When our drama is through, 

And your glory completed, then light up the jet. 

Ia this dimness the ghosts will come better in view. 
Sus. Ghosts ! Oh, dear me! where’s Anicula then ? 

Brim. She has crawl’d back into her inner den 
To get her girls prudently out of the way. 

The dame fain would stav, 

Being jealous, and anxious to share in your glory, 

And go down like you with great ears in men’s story; 
But we knew your ambition, and taught her she bare 
Length enough in her own without clipping your pair. 
But she soon will be back, I will venture to say. 

From her eagerness in the affair. 

Sus. Out on the jade ! Such conduct sickens, 

As much as the money-greed of Dickens 
Who having, after his cockney mood, 

Abus’d us by all the lies he could, 

Is coming here for our Yankee pelf. 



ACT Y. 


455 


To make a greater ass of himself, 

While we, like spaniels well broke-in, 

Forget his thumps and vulgar curses, 

And opening, like our hearts, our purses, 

Beg him to help himself to our tin, 

Then turn up our rumps 
For more of his thumps, 

And lick his toes till the kicks begin. 

Salt. Eh, Legum Doctor ! say you so ? 

That is truth again. Why, you advance ! 

He has not engag’d you, I see, to enhance 
His low grimaces ? 

Sus. Who, Dickens ? Ho. 

The daily press are made fat instead, 

As they always are when such feasts are spread. 
We of the quarterlies sit too far 
From the end of the board where the Flunkies are, 
To come in for a share of the broken bread. 

But let us begin. 

Salt. Ere the dame comes in ? 

With all my heart. 

* 

Brimstone disappears , and arises an Apparition. 
What see you there? 

Sus. With the large sad eyes and the youthful hair ? 
His cheeks are pale and gaunt. But what 
Means here and there that discolor’d spot? 

Salt ’T is the livid mark of the poison he took; 






456 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


The sole post-obit in his look. 

Sus. 0, I understand; and I know him wholly. 

No wonder he looks so rantipolly. 

’T is the ghost, by Jove, of Thomas Rowley! 

Salt. But hist, till he speaks. If he leave in disdain, 

My friends may not waken him up again. 

Appar. Great Master of Asses and LL.D., 

What had I done that you libel’d me ? 

Sus. ’T is Brimstone’s voice. But the ghost is well-bred. 

I see they have manners among the dead. 

Libel’d ! I wrote in a laud-sounding strain. 

There is no “ Shakspearian scholar ” more hot 
In the love of his idol’s most whimsical blunder, 

Or who takes his worst gong-beat for genuine thunder, 
Than I when resounding your praises, God wot. 

Appar. ’T is of that I complain. 

Gapes there ever a fool 

Who is fresh from the rhetoric benches at school, 

But knows what sort of stuff you quote, — 

Although it was not all stuff I wrote? 

Is that the drama ? And such its style ? 

Y#u have taught your readers to stare, or smile. 

That is not nature as now I know it, 

And praising my verses you damn’d the poet. . 

i 

Ghost vanishes , and reappears Brimstone. 

Sus. You are here again ! Do you juggle so? 

Brim. I but saw him down; which was right you know, 




ACT V. 


Since I tickled him up from his snooze below. 

Sus. Oh ho! 

Salt. Close up, old pup ; 

Another poet is sailing up. 

Exit Charcoal, and Apparition rises. 

Sus. His brick-red curls are sprinkled with snow. 

His light eyes beam 

With self-conceit, and a pleasant gleam 

That is not the flash of the tragic storm. 

And yet I would swear that lofty form, 

With its lively face and expanded brow, 

Is one I know, or ought to know. 

Appar. Me, thou impertinent! know me, thou! 

Thou mayst have sense in thy degree- 

Sus. In my double degree. 

Appar. Peace, vain fool! 

Who thought of thy honors from college or school ? 

Despite thy A.M.- 

Sus. And my double L. D. 

Appar. Thou mayst have line enough to gage 
The shoal still pool, where no tempests rage, 

Of the Spanish Student , or measure Queechy , 

Not the depths of Filippo or Polini'ce. 

Sus. That terrible voice is Charcoal’s own, 

Though ten times louder, and haughty in tone. 

I know him now, with his scalp so hairy 

And whiskerjess jaws. It is Count A1 fieri. 

• Vol. IV.— 20 








458 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Appar. Colcnt unto thee, whose envious hate 
Reproach’d me with pride in that titled lot 
Which by right of birth so natural sate 
On my father’s name that I felt it not; 

But to the world my works still bore 
Victor Alfieri , and nothing more: 

A pride by you not understood, 

Who have stuck the letters of both your degrees, 

Cheap and unearn’d although they were- 

Sus. To that I demur ; 

I paid for them twenty- 

Appar. Silence, cur ! — 

Have thrust each cheap, unearn’d degree, 

That men your sole claims to knowledge might see. 

On every side, wherever you could- 

Sus. No, Signor Conte, if you please, 

On the bare backside of my Quarterly, 

And with some of the Press, in notice or puff, 
Whom I patronize for a quantum suff. 

We do all things here lor cash you know, — 
Though you go on tick, I suppose, below. 

Appar. Silence, once more! — That thou hast try’d, 
Thou to whom honor nor truth is known, 

To asperse my fame, who liv’d and dy’d 
Slave unto Truth, and Truth alone, 

This I forgive, though thou shalt atone 
To that public judgment thou hast defy’d. 

Sus. Have mercy, good ghost, nor deprive me of bread 
In my next I will take back all I have said, — 






ACT V. 


459 




On the word of a critic, and as sure as you ’re dead! 
Appar. Hound! dar’st thou deem I am like thy tribe, 

To cant or recant as men pay or bribe ? 

Thy aspersions are praise, and another pen 
Shall make of them mirth for the gizzards of men. 

But what I can. neither forgive nor forget, 

Until in the regions above I am set 

Where men o’er their wrongs are not suffer’d to fret- 

Sus. And no Minor critics condemn in a pet. 

Appar. A pest on thy pestilent tongue ! — What is worse, 

I say, than thy praise, thou hast made me rehearse 
As I never yet spoke, nor in prose nor in verse. 

Unasham’d thou hast ventur’d to strip off the buskin 

♦ 

From the feet of my toga’d and chlamydate Tuscan, 

And clap on the socks of thy English instead, 

Slipshod, and soft as the pap of thy head. 

Better in tinsel, cross-garter’d, to tread 

With the stage-strut of Emerson, Carlyle and Buskin. 

Sus. Peccavi ! sed non mea culpa ; not mine 

The soft worsted ; I bought it at sixpence a line. 

« Tlie all that I did was to lend it some picking: 

I adopted the cub; but I gave him a licking. 

Appar. Didst thou so? How I ’m minded to give thee a 
kicking. 

But the weakness or want of the flesh has come o’er me, 
And Brimstone and Charcoal must do the job for me. 

Apparition vanishes , and reappears Charcoal. 

Sus. He has vamos'd the ranchP And there’s Charcoal again! 






460 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 



This is all hocuspocus, or masking ; that’s plain. 

Char. Not a whit. Do yon think a sixfooter like him 

Could step from his niche in the Shades, nor be miss’d? 

Sus. Why, the chance were but slim. 

Char. — So I took up his place in Probational Hell, 

And escap’d all detection by means of its mist. 

As for masking, how could a paste-board imitation 
Be proof to the lens of your us’d penetration ? 

Sus. Very right, Mr. Coal. Vain to hope it. As well 
Look for judgment in Grreeley, or truth in the Nation , 

Bid Raymond stand still for a minute, or Sedley 
Tell more than he hides in his fortnightly medley. 

Salt. What are those ? Of the four, are unknown to me three 



Sus. One a coverless journal; the others are asses, 
That mix, though unlike, as do milk and molasses, 


And wake pity and mirth when they bray to the masses, 


Like the Ethnos or me. 

Salt. My friends now, great Doctor, have shown you their 
power : 


I have kept half my word; you know how ghosts look. 


Will it do ? Shall they summon up more ? But the hour 
Is late, and the dame will be leaving her nook. 

Sus. No, give me the rest of your promise ; I long 
To wear my grand ears and be famous in song. 

Salt. It is well: but not yet. You have shown yourself brave. 
You are leag’d hand and glove with the servants of 


Hell — 


Sus. Not with you ? [in alarm. 

Salt. Never mind. — And chop logic as well 







ACT Y. 


461 


With the pupae whose sordid cocoon is the grave. 

By these two adts alone, 

Already you wear them. 

But forever to bear them 
And by them be known, 

You must prove by your gifts they are truly your own. 
Sus. By my gifts ? How you prate ! Am I not LL.D., 

And was A.M. before ? 

Then give them to me. 

By the Powers ye adore, 

By the shame I defy 
Were it doubled twice o’er, 

0 Saltpeter, I cry, 

Let me feel, ere I die, 

My long ears stand up somewhat nearer the sky ! 

Salt. Can you go through the proofs that shall make these gifts 
known ? 

Sus. Through them all! Only try. 

Salt. 0 hero! 

Sus. Be quick! 

Salt. On thy four paws go down. 

And give him the halter. What! up ? So soon scar’d ? 
Sus. I would hang for the ears ; but my neck must be spar’d. 
Heck or nothing. 

Salt. With us, it is nothing indeed. 

To know you have patience, can keep your own way 
Spite of coaxing or curses — 

Save when flatter’d your greed 
Is by dreams of full purses — 






462 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Nor, shamefac’d, will heed 
The worst men may say, 

This is all that we need. 

Sus. That exception observ’d, which is wise nowadays 
When a patron is valu’d for what he disburses, 

The rest is as light as to spawn tadpole verses. 

Such as Round-Robins praise, 

While Fledgling, who knows not which most to admire, 

A jewsharp, or bagpipe, or iEolus’ lyre, 

But dotes on Walt Whitman’s batrachian fire, 23 
Shall, in love with their long tails, the porwiggles feed 
As full-breech’d green frogs of the Horse-fountain breed. 
Salt. What! what! truth again? If you sing in this strain, 
Your ears will be stretch’d to the ass point in vain. 

Sus. Never fear: I but stumble thus trotting alone, 

Or with friends ; in my journal I rein-in my roan, 

And decide by my belly and not by my brains. 

Salt. True metal! But quick; on your quarters once more. 
How the halter becomes him! Now clap on the pack. 
While Charcoal sits woman-wise perch’d on his back, 

You, Brim, jerk his tail, while I drag him before. 

Sus. But don’t jerk so hard, or my tail will be torn. 

’T is my best workday-coat and is only half-worn. 

And don’t kick so much. Ow ! ow ! 

Salt. If you cry, 

You ’ll have more than the dame bouncing in to know why. 
Sus. 0 my! 0 my ! 

0 my seat of honor! 

Pray, don’t spank so hard! The dame — curse upon her! 













ACT V. 


463 


Let me up ! let me up ! The dame — d—n the wencli! 
She sha’ n’t see me stretch’d like a wasliermaid’s bench. 
Salt. Do you pull up so soon ? 

Sus. Up? ’T is you beat me down. 
My rump’s not an ass’s, whatever my crown. 

Salt. But the ears ? 

Sus. Let them go. Ow ! I’m beat black and blue. 
I can’t carry Charcoal and bear your kicks too. 

Salt. Let him rise. It will do. 

Sus. Do ? my back’s almost broken. 

Salt. You have prov’d it of steel. 

And this is the token : 

You have kept your own way 

Like a genuine ass, — though with rather more bray. 

Sus. But, for all that, I feel. 

Now give me the ears. 

Salt. Not as yet. You have shown, 

It is true, soul and carcass, an ass’s backbone. 

You must now make it known 

You can swing to the popular breath of the nation, 

And to private dictation — 

Sus. For a gratification — 

Salt. To and fro with a prompt oscillation, 

Or round with a gallowsbird’s circumgyration, 

Whatever the compass-point whence it is blown. 

Sus. Pshaw! I do that with ease! Not Weathercock Flunky, 
Though daily, more duly, nor his Topical monkey. 

Salt. Let us see! Hang him up by his weasand. 

Sus. [in alarm.'] What’s that! 



464 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


I will not box the compass — save on paper, — that’s flat! 
Salt. But you must, or no ears. Fix the hook. Trice him up. 
By the coat-collar only, you ninny. 

Sus. You ’ll tear it. 

Salt. But the glory, the ears! Will you lose them, to spare it? 
Sus. 0 me ! I shall dangle just like a blind pup. 

Salt. Or a sheep in the shambles. 

Sus. But whence come these things; 
The hoop, and the ring in the ceiling, and block, 

With the rope that thence swings ? 

Salt. They are brought by the phantoms on tables that knock. 
Sus. Pheew! 

Salt. What, doubting? ’T is harder to hurl fiddles 
round 

On the sconces of gazers and make guitars sound 
B}^ invisible thumbs, as your Davenpo.rts do. 

Sus. That is true. 

Salt. As the ghosts of the verse-men we summon’d to view. 
There. Tip with him! oo ! 

Sus. Oh, oh ! let me down! Let me down, or I ’ll cry ! 

My brains are aswound. 

My heels kiss the ceiling 
And my skull treads the ground. 

I don’t know which is which while my brainpan keeps 
reeling 

And my navel goes round. 

They unhook him. 

Salt. So. You have learn’d vacillation. 

Sus. I knew it of yore, 
















ACT V. 


465 


Sus. 

Salt. 


Sus. 


While you slabber’d your mother, or even I trow 
Were coil’d up a foetus in utero, 

To your daddy’s delectation. 

Salt You practic’d then shifting, some ages or more 
Ere the Spirit that brooding sat over the deep 
Put the breathing red clay in liis consciousless sleep, 

To produce an equivocal first generation. 

Oh horror! I’m hous’d with the Father of Sin, 

Or one Of his kin. 

With neither. But what if you were, so you win ? 

Set your heart on the ears, 

And your feet on these fears ; 

Your fame shall grow younger while olden the years. 
Enough. Shall I more ? Through the Devil and Hell 
I would stride to my glory. Push onward. 

Salt. ’T is well. 

You must next learn false candor. 

Sus. I avow that in that 

Round Robin’s my master. 

Salt. He needs not to be. 

You have only to hide what is lofty as he, 

And vaunt to the skies the ignoble or flat. 

I do! I do ! 

Witness your ghosts if I do not speak true. 

But to make that appear, 

You must perch on your head with your claws in the air. 
0 spare! 0 spare! 

Set me down, set me down ! 

All the blood leaves my seat to descend to my crown. 

20 * 


Sus. 


Salt. 


Sus. 






466 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Set me down, or I’m dead: 

My brain is afire, my eyes flame; I’m sped! 

0 my soul! 

Salt. [righting him. * 

You are all over red. 

’T is the dawn of your triumph. 

Sus. No, the set of my pole. 

I hope this is all. 

Salt. Not enough for your fame. 

The next thing to learn is the goodbye to shame. 

Sus. I have bid it already. Attest that, my Quarterly. 

Not inside alone, but without, as you ought to see, 

It is printed in full. 

Salt. Where your name is. We know it. 
But off with your breeches, and caper to show it. 

Sus. There. 

Brim, let them down tenderly, else they will tear. 

Ye gods, I am bare ! 

Salt. Let us chant. 

Sus. Well, begin. 

Salt. Now, Doctor, keep time. 

Sus. And, in time, if the air 
Suit my taste, I ’ll chime in. 

Salt. In puris naturalibus, 

The Doctor’s dainty legs discuss 
The lines of beauty, capering thus, 

As if he’d pass’d at Willis’. 24 










ACT V. 


467 


Sus. The air however’s rather cool. 

I think you make me play the fool, 

Too plump for nature’s dancingschool, 

^ With short tendo A chillis. 

Brim. Give him a kick, to spin him round; 
Char. Another, for the pair that ’s found 
Of cushions waiting their rebound. 

Salt. But spring a little higher. 

✓ 

Sus. I would the world could see my shame, 
Who caper thus for future fame — 

Salt. As David, when he’d won the game 
Of Jack-stones with Goliah. 

Sus. Yet stop! though dancing does agree 
With naked tibial dignity, 

It hardly suits my Quarterly, 

Although it saves my breeches. 

Besides, my breath is growing short. 

Salt. And, Doctor, you have made good sport, 
A Sampson in Philistine court, 

As Judges XV. teaches. 


Sus. How well you know the sacred text! 
Salt. It is my forte ; and Henry Beecher 
Himself might be perhaps perplex’d, 










468 


THE SCHOOL FOE CKITICS 


Although a most accomplish’d preacher, 

To follow where my memory reaches, 

And think perhaps that Satan preaches. 

Sus. He often does, rude laics say. 

I have known myself a broker pray, 

And cheat his client the same day 
And bring him to the verge of starving, ■ 

Say grace to his thanksgiving-dinner, 

( His creditor had none, mean sinner! ) 

Then smile, as doubtless should the winner, 

The while a sumptuous sirloin carving. 

But have I done ? 

Salt. We pause, you see. 

Char. First, accept these two love spanks, 

Given, if with emotion rough, 

One on each cheek, yet tenderly. 

Sus. One for both were caress enough. 

Yet for the gift I render thanks. 

Char. And ought, for your hide is beastly tough. 

Sus. ’T is sitting so long at my task ev’ry quarter. 

’T would harden the beef of an alderman’s daughter. 
Char. Or of Brimstone, or me. 

Sus. I have danc’d and sung, and I feel ecstatic 
From fundament to Mansard attic. 

I would there were no more to do, 

Than shake a leg with Salt and you. 

But help me now my drawers indue: 

Their want gives over much to view, 

And makes me seem erratic. 



ACT Y. 


469 


I only wish the dullard crew, 

Who make pretensions to review 
The poets they can scarcely read, 

Would dance like me in cuerpo once 
’T would fire the liver of each dunce, 

And, acting on his brain-pulp, serve 
To make him guess at tragic verve. 

Please hold my drawers awhile, while now 
I wipe the dew drops from my brow 
Of wholesome perspiration. 

I do not like to swear, yet vow, 

With shirt and jacket on and coat, 

Cravatted too, but sans culotte , 

I’m like the bird that talks by rote 
Bi-monthly in the Nation. 

Come, give the calicos. 

Salt. Not yet. 

As ’t is convenient, let us set 
His titles on his naked parts, 

Laws’ Doctor and great man of Arts. 

Sus. M. stands for Master, not Man, Mister. 

Char. So brand it Artium Magister. 

Bring the iron that sears. 

Sus. No, no! by my 4 tears! 

Make me not a freemason — at least not for life ! 

If the brand should be seen !- Have regard for my 

wife. 

Salt. He has suffer’d enough, 

And has prov’d the right stuff. 








470 THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 

Let us give him the ears. 

Sus. 0 joy ! 

Salt. Hold your tongue : it is greatly too long. 

Sus. And a long tongue licks up vexation. 

You forget my degrees and might have spar’d me the wrong 
Of that vocative mortification. 

Salt. Well, hush then, great Doctor, and listen the song, — 
While you, Brimstone and Charcoal, 

Stop with spittle each earhole, 

And rub up, nor mind the pain- 

Sus. Yes, yes; for mine the pain. 

Salt. — The rims, till they shine again, — 

The song of our Incantation. 

But first, though you have prov’d a wonder 
In bestial worth, and may defy 
Compare, yet this is to supply: 

You must tread conscience wholly under, 

Boldly dash and never blunder, 

Ere your ears will reach the sky. 

Sus. Then crown the work, nor more deny 
My honors ; nought is to be fear’d ; 

My conscience is already Sear’d. 

Save Deadhead sole and Flunky’s Fledgling, 

I know not any moral ridgling 
Can sense and decency defy, 

Suppress the truth, or boldly lie, 

With such indifference as I. 

Salt. Well then, attend; and while Coaly and Brim 
Bespittle your holes and chafe each ear-rim, 




ACT V. 


471 


Make no outcry. 

INCANTATION. 

By the spirits in darkness dwelling, 
Styebak’cl, half-naked, and wholly obscene; 
By the thick oils from underground welling, 
Making naptha and kerosene; — 

Sus. What a queer charm ! 

Salt. If you ’d not come to harm, 

You will take good care not to cross my spelling. 

By the sheet-lightning, that dazzles, not kills, 

Image of force that is only in seeming; 

By the miasms from stagnant pools steaming, 

Filling men’s vitals with fever and chills ; 

♦ 

By the town-council in mud that reposes, 
Shellfish that neither are oyster nor clam, 

By their vile gutters that reek not of rcses, 
Making the taxpayers frown, spit and damn; 

Sus. And press hard their noses. 

Salt. Will you hold ? 

Sus. Having roll’d 

But just now in that clover, 

1 have study’d its botany over and over, 

And thought I might add, as a note, ’T is no sham. 
But be quick; for my auricles are glowing ; 





472 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


And my digits can’t find out at all that they ’re growing. 
Salt. Patience and list. When the charm is all sung. 

Your ears will have almost the stretch of your tongue. 


By all that is vile, or in nothingness ending, 
Borrow’d and full of pretension vain, 

Come with your tails up, straight, corkscrew'd, am 
bending, 

Creatures that symbol his heart and his brain: 

Monkey and magotpie, paddock and frog, 

And spitting she-kitten and snarling cur-dog, 
Reremouse, and nyctalopic owl, 

Crocodile grim, and hyena fowl, — 

His arts’ eido'la and types of his mind, 

Surround him, caress him; he is of your kind. 




Sus. 0 me ! 0 me! I wish I was blind. 
The owl’s on my head. 


And the monkey- You imp, take your paws off! 


Let go; 

Or you ’ll strangle me. Oh ! 

And that beast from the Nile, 

With his amplify’d smile, 

His yard-long mouth — scissors and chopper and file, 
Keep him back, or I’m dead. #- 
Salt 0 fi! 0 fi ! 

A Doctor, and cry ? 







ACT V. 


473 


These spirits, though evil, 

Will give health to your navel, 

Not make you to die. 

They will teach you to mimic, — to prate without mean¬ 
ing, — 

To stare without seeing, — to puff without pride, — 

To feign frozen chastity, 

While in hot nastity 

Seeking by harsh words lust-itching to hide, — 

To growl o’er the stript bones you’re savagely cleaning, — 
To tear from their graves and disfigure the dead, — 

To be daz’d with the twilight, 

Half mouse and half sparrow, 

And dash, like an arrow 
Misshot, through a skylight, — 

To croak with facility 

The tuneless un-sense of a sapless anility, — 

And give you ability 
By a shrewd crocodility 

To make shoddy seem broadcloth in all you have said. 

In fine, they will stuff, with goetic agility, 

Your brainpot with feathers and your heart’s pipes with 
lead. 

.S 'us. The dear ugly creatures! Each fright is a fairy. 

I feel my ears prick, my os frontis grows hairy. 

0 Stoney, 0 dear Coal, 

Spit your best at each ear-hole, 

Nor of friction be chary. 

O feathers and lead ! 





474 


THE SCHOOL FOE CELTICS 


All feathers and lead ! 

You were wrong, noble Salty, in what you last said: 

My head ’t is grows heavy, my heart that is airy. 

0 , 0 ! 

I wish I could show 

My crown to all Hotchpot at once. Let me go. 

But the phantoms are leaving. Goodbye, my dear 
creatures. 

The valves of my heart shall shut-in your sweet features; 
Especially yours, armor’d Earl'of the Nile, 

With your skillet-handle tail and your waffle-iron smile. 
Adieu ! adieu ! — 

Now, my rubbers, to you, 

Whose hands have the magic of Moses, 

I turn and demand, 

Is there aught in this land 

Can compare with my metamorplio’sis ? 

Char. It is all very well; a good head of its kind. 
iSus. Good ? ’T is complete in each elegant feature, 

And fits me like a second nature. 

Char. And there is the very fault I find: 

’T is too natural far. 

It makes you appear, 

Jaws, forepiece and ear, 

Without counting the hair, 

Like the ass that you are. 

Sus. Say, donkey : it fits not my bifold degree 
To be nam’d, though mark’d, asinauricularly. 

But seem I the same ? 



ACT Y. 


« 


475 




And if I be known by that recogniz’d name, 
Which is Fledgling’s and Deadhead’s 
And some other leadheads’, 

I 

I who have run the whole college curriculum, 
Why what upon earth shall cognominate me ? 
Char. Asinor'um Magis'ter , Lectdrum Deridic ulum. 
Sus. Why, that is my A.M. and double L. D.! 

But here is Anicula. Now we shall see. 

Enter Anicula. 


Anic. Eh ! Bottom the weaver! 

Now, would I were Titania for thy sake. 

I’d “kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.” 
Sus. Dost think I’d hug a doxy of your make ? 

I would as soon buss Fledgling, or a boy. 

But oh thou deceiver ! [gaily to Salt. 

If one may believe her, 

Who’s as false as the Nation , 

( She at least, ’t would appear, 

Is fully aware 

Of my beautiful transfiguration. 

For this I adore thee, 

And could kneel down before thee, 

And aye ready to serve am. 

Anic. Sure, ’t is old Sus Minervam ! 

That fools-voice reveal’d him, 

As the dim light conceal’d him. 

Pray, let me. explore thee. 







476 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Why, you ’re perfect, I vow. 

Feels it good ? 

Sus. Bless the maker, 

’T is my soul’s simulachre : 

I never had justice till now. 

Anic. Mr. Salt, give me one. — 

But your candle burns dim. 

Salt. Ancient dame, you need none. — 

Light the gas, Mr. Brim. 

Sus. He does ’t with his fingers ! Is the devil in him ? 
Salt. No, on my veracity, 

’T is his Brimstone capacity. 

He has the felicity 
To use electricity 
Like matches, for fun. 

Anic. But again for the ass-head. Why don’t I need one 
Salt. It would make you less trim. 

And, as simple Anicula, 

In your function particular 
You give quite as droll delectation, 

By your senile garrulity 

And anile credulity- 

Sus. As if you were chief of the Nation. 

But here come two witlings, to heighten my joy, — 
Though one is a monkey ; 

Polyphemus’s boy 

And the turnspit of Flunky. 

I ’ll play mum and enjoy their surprise. 





ACT Y. 


477 


Enter Deadhead and Fledgling. 

Dead. Old lady, your humble contumble. My eyes! 

What a mask! 

Fledg. And what size ! 

I will make on’t a note for my Topics. 

We don’t breed such at home. 

Whence can the beast come ? 

Dead. From Aspis, I think, in the Tropics. 

Anic', you she-monkey, 

Get on the old donkey. 

Sus. No you don’t. 

Fledg. Eh ! ’t is Sus. 

Who gave him those ears ? 

Anic. Mr. Salt, it appears; 

Or, it may be, the Devil. 

Fledg. Fi, old woman, be civil. 

Give them, wise man, to us. 

Sus. Be o/f, and don’t trouble him. 

They are mine, and mine only. 

Salt. Fear not, I can’t double them ; 

Though, your asshead’s not lonely. 

Fledg. Can we make no conditions ? I feel we shall die, 

If outdone by the Doctor, Mort-Caput and I. 

Anic. What stuff! Don’t I stand in my petticoat by ? 

Sus. Well protested, old dame of the Ethnos; but higher 
Than greatness soars envy, as smoke above fire. 

Salt. Notwithstanding, these witlings shall have their desire. 
Fledg. How ? 



478 


THE SCHOOL FOE CRITICS 


Dead. Say how! 

Salt. By leaving your birth-marks to stand just as now; 
Only making each feature 
Better photograph nature, 

As with the great Doctor, on jaw, nose and brow. 
Dead. Begin then, begin. 

Fledg. But is it not sin ? 

Dead. Out, sanctity ! Is n’t there money to win ? 

Push on, jolly proctor, 

Make us grin like the Doctor. 

We ’ll line you with greenbacks or plate you with tin. 
Salt. Attend then. 

Sus. Fave'te. 

Fledg. That means, Stop your din. 


Salt. Not from the spirit-world need we to summon 
Biped or quadruped, feathers or hair, 

Haunting stream, standing-pool, cockloft or common, 
From their mud, hole or perch, kennel or lair. 

Take these two newspapers, wet with men’s 
water- 

Anic. Of my girl’s making, nevertheless. 


Salt. Mind not, the ancient dame; envy has taught 
her- 






ACT y. 


479 


Anic. Knowledge of earthenware, rather confess. 

Salt. Clap them upon your head, occiput, sinciput — 

Anic. But do it tenderly, else they will tear. 

Sus. They ’re your own daily sheets. Mind not the stingy slut. 

Salt. Press them to mouth and nose, eyelids and hair. 

Dead. But they are devilish salt. 

Salt. That’s not the devil’s fault. 

Fledg. No, ’t is humanity’s. 

Anic. That you may swear. 

Salt. As in the Hours’ page flatness and fickleness, 
Laughable graveness and mawkish mirth meet; 

As in the Cryer mere spluttering words express 
All that’s not ribald or worse in its sheet; 

So shall these papers impress on your faces 
Types of each soul’s inward birth-given shape, 

Make Deadhead a parrot, give you the grimaces, 

The solemn inaneness and mirth of an ape. 


It is done. Lift the sheet; 
The impression’s complete. 




480 


THE SCHOOL FOE CRITICS 


Dead. I am glad; for the print’s too much stal’d to be sweet. 
Anic. Eh, the trio ! How fine ! 

Sus. But my asshead’s the best. 

Anic. And I alone left, all unchang’d! 



Sus. Don’t be vex’d. 


Anic. When my virtue alone in the group’s unexpress’d ? 

I were better unsex’d. 

Salt. You need not repine : 

You attract as much note 
By your petticoat. 

Fledg. And are free of the brine. 

Dead. A parrot, a monkey, an ass and old maid. 

Let us get up a dance for our masquerade. 

Fledg. But where is the music ? 


Salt. Behold, to your aid. 


Fledg. The fiddle, the bones and the banjo already! 
I fear that the Devil is piper. 


Salt. Hot he. 


Sus. They come from the spirits. 


Salt. Ho matter; keep steady: 


You may have the Devil to pay, but not me. 

Sus. That is something; I like contributions post-free. 
Fledg. But, Doctor, turn in. 


Sus. I am fagg’d. Ere you came, 


I danc’d a long Indian pas-seul for my fame, 

And toe’d it unbreech’d, proof to cold and to shame. 
Dead. Then you’ve practice ; a male Taglioni. Fall in. 
Scrape up now, good catgut, and let us begin. 








ACT Y. 


481 


Fledg. Up and down, and in and out, 

Chassez, promenez round about. 

'Dead. It is better leg-shaking, than pens, no doubt. 

Fol de rol! 

Sus. The one is hard shuffling, the other mere play. 

Ho donkey could stand that, except for pay. 

Fledg. You mean, I suppose, for thistles or hay. 

Sus. It is one. And an ass cannot always bray 
Without pause in his vocalization. 

Dead. And a parrot must swing, as well as talk. 

Fledg. And a monkey won’t always on two legs walk. 
Anic. Nor a petticoat either swap cheese for chalk, 
Who is not in a situation. 

Sus. Except- 

Dead. But, Doctor, keep time; you balk. 

Sus. — For a handsome consid-e-ration. 

Dead. Fol de rol. 

Fledg. Cross over. Ladies change. You see, 

We beat the devils in Calvary. 

Dead. That is easy ; they danc’d without fiddle-de-dee 
Fol de lol. 

Fledg. Balance. I never had so much fun, 

Except when I found an author done. 

Dead. Or the public diddled. 

Anic. It is all one, 


Vol. IV.—21 




482 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


In our soi-disant critical function. 

Fledg. To cog, dissemble, misrepresent; 

•To fool the public to its bent; 

And wink when it sees what never was meant; 

Is interest rich ; but cent per cent- 

Sus. Is our Terpsichorean junction. 

Dead. Forward two. What a jolly dance ! 

Fledg. And what music! ’T would make an old donkey 
prance. 

Sus. Or a tailless monkey. 

Fledg. Its pleasures enhance, 

And with a particular zest, 

The joy I had to make Tilton cry, 

When I quoted as proof of his powers The Fly. 
Dead. Well, why did n’t Sheldon your blarney buy ? 
Fledg. Or yours ? You know, as well as I, 

He may rank with New England’s best. 25 

Dead. One jackass foward. Now back again. 

Now lady and ape. 

Anic. Let me hold up my train. 
Dead. Come, Be’lzebub, scrape us another strain. 

Fol de lol. 

Enter Galantuom, Heartandhead, 
and Atticus. 

Gal. Why, what the dense are you all about ? 




ACT y. 


483 


Sus. Do you see our heads ? 

Gal. To be sure we do. 

And your legs as well. You ’re a jolly crew. 
Few editors, even the dolts of the Nation , 

Would after this fashion make saltation 
To fiddle and flute. You caper without. 

Sus. You must be stone-deaf and gravel-blind. 

* 

Don’t you see our little band ? 

’T is of the best of the fiddling kind 
To be found in all the land. 

Saltpeter has now the horsehair in hand, 

And Brimstone rattles the bones, 

And little Charcoal' 

From the banjo’s hole 
Is drawing those bullfrog tones. 

Gal. The devil! the banjo has no hole. 

Heart. He must mean 11 the light guitar.” 

Sus. No, I don’t; I mean just what I say : 

The banjo’s bottom is all away. 

Dead. And as Sambo says, dat ’s dar. — 

No matter, strike up, 

My devils-bullpup, 

And show them what you are. 

Fledg. Up the middle and down again. 

Dead. Sweep in, broomsticks, might and main. 
Sus. Rest for muscle is rust for brain. 

Ante. Up the middle and down again. 




484 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Att. Why, they are all four crazy ! 

Fledg. Are we so ? 

You are, all three, fools. 

Dead. You are blind as new kittens, and don’t seem to know 
There’s lots of pleasure in such a go. 

Sus. “ Dul'ce est desip'ere in loco'.” 

Ante. What is that ? 

Dead. Some Hebrew that ’s pat, 

Fundamentally taught in the schools. 

Sus. But you don’t mark my ears’ length, you don’t note my 
head, 

Those emblems of glory to be. 

Be abash’d when you learn there lurks under this shed 
The brain of Sus, double L. D. 

Behold too that green-noddled parrot, that monkey 
Which belongs to the kind that are minus a tail: 

The first one picks grubs from the Cryer man’s nail, 

The other is turnspit to Weathercock Flunky. 

Heart. A parrot, a monkey, a head and long ears! 

This is worse than the Quarterly gabble of Sears. 

Fledg. And you see not the changes ? 

Gal. We see but three men, 
Two of whom have their faces 
Smear’d with what seems the traces 
Of types, and an elderly dame, in this den. 

Sus. And you heard not the music ? 

Att. We heard upon the floor 
The shuffling of your feet and your bacchanalian roar, 

As you shambled to and fro. 



ACT Y. 


485 


Only this. 

Dead. Says Raven Poe : 

“ Only this, and nothing more.” 

S'us. And you don’t then see the triad ? 

Att. What triad ? 

&'us. Our small band, 
With the banjo, and the beef-bones, and the fiddle-bow in 
hand. 

There they stand. 

Att. Where ? 

Sus. At the wall. 

Att. I see but a petticoat- 

Dead. “Hanging to dry.” 26 
Att. And an old straw bonnet by, 

And a shawl. 

Sus. Then you ’re crazy, else am I. 

Att. To my thinking, 

It is Avine. 

Fledg. What the Doctor has been drinking, 

With the ancient virgin here, 

Is his own affair. 

But, I say it without shrinking, 

Save our beer, 

Dead and I have tasted nothing- 

Dead. Only brine. 

Fledg. Yet we see the ass’s ear, 

And behold the triad there, 

Who have, to our delectation, 

Made this triple transformation. 





486 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


That is clear. 

Gal. Here’s some juggle. 

Sus. You are crazy. 

Mr. Peter, Charcoal, Brim: 

Lift these skeptics’ leaden eyes. 

In this room the air ’s not hazy, 

No more burns the candle dim; 

In the gaslight- 

Dead. Even an ass might 
At your blindness show surprise. 

Salt. As I hinted once before, 

Strangers to your worth are blind ; 

And the glory of your asshood 
With your friends alone will pass good, 
Monkies, parrots, and such kind. 

This, although’t you may deplore, — 
Dead. “ Quoth the Raven, Evermore,” — 

Salt. ’T is not in our power to alter. 

Only human optics heed us 
In the sconce of fools who need us, 

Who with truth and conscience palter 
Or are like yourself in mind. 

Sus. Did you hear ? 

Gal. What? Deadhead’s joke 
Sus. No, that other voice which spoke. 

Gal. No one else the stillness broke. 

Att. We were struck to see you staring 
At those rags for women’s wearing, 

As if pondering their repairing, 




ACT Y. 


487 


Hanging on the dingy wall. 

Sus. Then the devil must be in it! 

0 my asshead! And to win it, 

Was’t for this I stoop’d to shin it? 

Bore with kick and spank and thwack ? 
More, bore Charcoal on my back ? 

Nor that all; 

Swung like smok’d meat from the ceiling, 

*r 

Stood on end till brains were reeling, 

And, my southern pole revealing, 

Boldly let my breeches fall ? 

Dead. So the game is up ! We ’re diddled. 

’T was old Be’lzebub that fiddled. 

Let’s skedaddle , great and small. 

Salt But before you scud, believe me, 

In this mummery goetic 
There was nothing to deceive ye. 

Each shall flourish still a critic, 

With the traits that here ho bore. 

You shall be, to all who know you, 

Still a parrot, and a monkey, 

Mimicking and nothing more, 

He who turns the spit for Flunky. 

Still the ancient dame shall drape her 
In old frippery and shape her 
Worn head-gear to suit her paper; 

While the LL.D. shall show you 
All his asshead as before. 

Heart. How they stare! They are surely crazy. 



488 


THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


Dead. No, we ’re listening but; be aisy. 

Sus. To a prophecy, expressing- 

Fledg. That our cake is not all dough. 

Salt. Take, before you leave, this blessing. 

Brim. Mine too. 

Char. Mine too, Doctor. 

Sus. Oh! 

Spare ! Have mercy! Such a basting 
For my ham is more than wasting: 

I ’ve no relish for the dressing. [Exit — manipulating. 
Gal Good night, Doctor. 

Dead. There’s a go ! 

Take more time. With so much hasting^ 

You may reach too soon below. 

Fledg. Come, old fellows, not for us 
Such rump-roasting. 

Dead. Don’t stay tasting : 

Let us hasten after Sus. 

Fledg. D—n them, no ; pitch in. 

Dead. Our breeches 
’Gainst their hoofs have slim defences. 

Damn’d they are. Come, St Paul teaches 
Counter-kicking never thrives. 

Sus. [from below.] Bring down with you, lads, my beaver. 

Take my curse, you arch deceiver ! 

Salt. Why? Your asshood aye survives. 

Att. Have these men not lost their senses ? 

Heart. Were they ever theirs, to lose them ? 

Gal. Look ! you’d think their legs had lives. 






ACT V. 


489 


Dead. Gad! we’ve no choice but to use them. 

Needs must when the devil drives. 

Exeunt hastily 

i 

Fledgling and Deadhead, 
the former in tragic huff] and are followed 
deliberately and wonderingly by 
Galantuom, Heartandhead and Atticus. 

Saltpeter, Brimstone, and Charcoal, 
first lifting up Anioula by the petticoat , causing her to 
sprawl and hick out like a toy spider , to the great damage of her 
virginal modesty , convert the medical advertisements of the 
Hours and the Cryer into sulphuretted hydrogen 
and ascend through the ceiling by the vapor. 


Manet 

Anicula in .dishabille, 
with the blank expression of the Ethnos. 






































. 



















NOTES 

. T 0 

THE SCHOOL FOE CEITIOS 


1. —P. 405. — Slanghouse-Square —] There is a place in New- 

York with a somewhat similar composite name, borrowed in like 
manner, with a ridiculous apery, from a locality in London. But in 
that case it is a triangle, a scalene of the most irregular propor¬ 
tions, and indeed amorphous, the two longest sides not meeting at 
all, although they converge. However, a figure of three angles for 
a parallelogram is as near as the journal which originated the 
euphonious designation can be expected to come to correctness. 

2. —P. 405. — in rogues abounding , Who dravj from the public 

pot their fare And openly , etc.] This is so like the kind of men 
which Mr. Parton gave to public admiration in the N. American 
Review , that, were it not for the name of the city, one might suppose 
they sat for the outline in New York. But as no individual is 
whatever his pre-eminence, absolutely singular, so it may be tha/ 
every corporation has, however monstrous its rascality, somewhere 
its congeners. 

3. —P. 406. That is why. one day , To get appointed , etc.] This 



492 


NOTES TO 


is one of the bad features of our popular government, the nomina¬ 
tion to high office of members of the Press. Supposing they were 
equally well-qualified as certain others, — which is taking a very 
great deal on assumption, — yet the office serves as a bribe, and the 
influence of a widely circulating newspaper is cheaply bought at 
any price by the candidate for election or re-election to the Presi¬ 
dency. The corruption thus produced on both sides, in the relation 
of cause and effect, needs not to be demonstrated. 

4.—P. 408. And stirring up rubbish he cry'd, “ Oh fine ! ”] It was 

not to be expected that any professional critic would presume to 

attack an author of established reputation, far less that those who 

know nothing of literary criticism but its pretension should be able 
« 

to discriminate between the false and the true ; but that such an ex¬ 
hibition of absurdity should be made in any journal of standing as is 
paraded, with full trumpet-accompaniment, in the following passage 
of the N. Y. Times of May 18, 186*7, would be incredible except to 
those familiar with its sycophancy iu letters, or who know by expe¬ 
rience its ignorance therein and absolute indifference to principle. 

“ Sometimes too, it would seem that Mr. Longfellow's exceeding familiarity 
with the Italian, and Iris unswerving attention to its literal signification leads 
[lead] him into obscurity. An instance of this may be found in the sixth line 
of canto XXIV. which Mr. Longfellow renders — 

‘ But little lasts the temper of her pen.’ 

The word pen here is precisely the same as the original penna■, but the reader 
who knows nothing of DANTE would be in doubt as to the meaning of the line. 
So in line thirty-six of the same canto : 

‘ He I know not, but I had been dead beat.’ 

The last half of this line has never been equaled by any former translator.” 

I should think not. It is a “ dead beat ” altogether. Had I, or 
Cluvienus, used such slang — on any occasion whatever! And for 
so ordinary a phrase : 

“Non so di lui; ma io sarei ben vinto .” 





THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


493 


The fact is, if the specimens given in the Times and in the Tribune 
are fair examples of Mr. Longfellow’s work, it will show that his 
capacity as a poet is, in every respect, far below what even his most 
moderate admirers have allowed him. Mr. L., it may be supposed, 
considered, that, as Dante himself frequently uses coarse and even 
grotesque phrases, he was but imitating the Dantescan spirit when 
he introduced this vulgarism and slang of the turf or chase. If so, 
he transcended his part, which was to follow, not to lead, and not 
to libel his original by adding to his crudities. But these news¬ 
paper critics! *- 

* The Times goes on to cite what it calls an “ incomparable picture: ” 

“ Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai 
Risonavan per l’aer senza stelle, 

Perch’ io al cpminciar ne lagrimai. 

Diverse lingue, orribili favelle, 

Parole di dolore, accenti d’ira, 

Voci alte e fioche, e snon di man con elle, 

Pacevano un tumulto il qua! s’aggira 
Sempre ’n quell’ aria senza tempo tinta, 

Come la rena quando ’1 turbo spira.” {Inf. III.) 

Of this it gives seven translations. The best of these is, as might be supposed, 
the German ; but “of all the English versions,” it tells us, — in the face of Mr. 
Wright’s and Dr. Parsons’, — “Mr. Longfellow’s is unquestionably both the most 
literal and the most poetic.". . . Let ns have it, including the two extraordinary 
lines here italicized: 

“ There sighs, complaints and ululations loud 

Resounded through the air without a star. 

Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat. 

Languages diverse , horrible dialects , 

Accents of anger, words of agony 

And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands, 

Made up a tumult that goes whirling on 
Forever in that air forever black 

Even as the sand doth when the whirlwind breathes.” 

I knew beforehand, judging from such as I have redd of Mr. Longfellow’s 
poems, and redd (the smaller ones ) with unqualified admiration, that their author 
wa»s by the very character of his mind inadequate to a version of the stem and 
masculine Florentine, but I never could have dreamed that he would have the 
folly to attempt, in these days, to render him without the rhyme which is so es- 




494 


NOTES TO 


5.—P. 410. Amen ! as said on his knees Jeff Davis , etc.] Godli¬ 
ness was a characteristic trait of this eminent personage, — eminent, 
I mean, in virtues. A lady of Richmond was much edified by seeing 

Bential to a true imitation. But my greatest surprise has been at the translator’s 
blank verse. His extraordinary use of unaccented syllables, where, at the close 
of a line, an accented one is required (whether that be the final syllable itself, or 
with other syllables after it redundant), shows a singular want of comprehension 
of true rythm and a defect of ear that I can scarcely now account for, although it 
is not an uncommon occurrence where poets used to rhyme attempt to do without 
it. In fine, his version (if it may be estimated by the samples given by his eulo¬ 
gists) is not even respectable, and, from a man of his taste, is, in a bad sense, sur¬ 
prising. Yet in the passage above quoted, which the newspaper-man, with 
affected transport, calls “ superb ”, telling us that its marvelous words thrill over 
every nerve of the reader! ( a ) there is nothing difficult at all, either of compre¬ 
hension or of rendering. 

Having, in Arthur Carryl, given a translation of certain scraps there cited of 
Dante, and given them, according to my constant custom, in the measure of the 
original, and with corresponding or equivalent rhymes, years before Mr. L. at¬ 
tempted his version, I hope I have some right to put forward my own rendering 
of the place, not to show how well it may be done, but to show that it may be done, 
and easily too, better than he has done it. These are the lines, written after run¬ 
ning over the absurd and pedantic panegyric I have, for my readers’ sake as well 
as for my own, held up to ridicule, and the contempt which befits at all times the 
hypocrisy of literary dilletanteism. 

There sighs, laments, and bowlings of deep wo , 

Resounded through that air without a star. 

Wherefore , at first, my tears could not but flow. 

Tongues of all kinds, and horrible words that jar, 

Phrases of stiff ering, wrath's discordant sound , 

Shrieks and chok'd cries, and smitten hands, that far 
And near made tumult, to and fro rebound , 

Forever in that air's unchanging gloom, 

Like to the sand which eddying winds whirl round. 

I do not aver that this exactitude of imitation could be carried out (even with 

» There is nothing whatever “ marvelous ” in either words or verse, although there is much that is ad¬ 
mirable in both. This is the pitiful cant of would-be cor.noisseu-e, who before any work of art, from letters 
to music, affect a rapture proportioned to its celebrity, and endeavor, by guessing at the value of certain 
points, or by assuming it without guessing, to acquire the reputation of literary acumen. As for Mr. L.’s 
translation, it is obvious to any unbiased reader, and certainly to one who has true knowledge of the subject 
and of vgrse in general, that three of the lines are the merest prose, while it is a desecration of the song of 
the Tuscan to render his accurate rythm by the absolutely unmetrical line which is the middle as well os 
worst of these three : 

“ Languages diverse, horrible dialects." 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


495 


him, through his open window, on his Presidential knees, and took 
care to advertise it to the public. To shut himself in his closet and 
pray in secret, according to the precept of Christ, would have been 
putting his rushlight under a bushel and have deprived the God- 
devoted of the profit of its lustre. What a sacrifice even of modesty 
will men not make, when exalted above self by the vapor of an ebul¬ 
lient patriotism I 

It was perhaps for his sanctity that this intended martyr, who had 
had the self-denial to run from destiny in his wife’s petticoat, was 
recently cheered on ’Change in Liverpool. It was certainly not be¬ 
cause he recommended his State to dishonor its own bonds, nor 
because he endorsed for consideration the proposition to murder Lin¬ 
coln, nor that he claimed to make the cornerstone of his temple of hu¬ 
man rights the absolute negatiou of human liberty, that our cousins 
of England forgot they had just found out how much they lovod us. 

6.—P. 414. No, none of us are so squeamous .] Tt is probably, not 
from habitual vulgarity, but from love of antiquity and his familiarity 
with old English writers, that the Cryer's man uses this, now un¬ 
justly considered barbarous and corrupt, form of the word “ squea¬ 
mish.” Webster, whom I have so often occasion to find fault with, 
has absurdly the hypothesis, “ Probably from the root of wamble .” 
Chaucer wrote squaimous ; and his erudite editor tells us: “ Robert 
of Brunne (in his translation of Manuel des Pechees, Ms. Bod. 2078. 
fol. 46.) writes this word, esquaimous; which is nearer to it3 original, 
exquamiare, a corruption of excambiareP Tyrwhitt : Gloss. Chauc. 
o/l v. In Rich. Coer de L. (ed. Weber,) it is written squoymous: 
“Frendes, be not squoymous, etc.,” when the Saracens have the 
heads of their friends placed in the dishes before them. This is pre¬ 
cisely, in its signification, the modern squeamish. 

single rhyme as here) through the whole of the Coinmedia , but I am positive that 
without such imitation, though one may give the measure of the poet, he canuot 
render his tone, which is to his stanzas what the coloring is to a fine painting iu 
which that quality is prominent. 



NOTES TO 


49d 


7. —P. 420. You have lost, sir and ma'am, each the nice speciality , 
etc.] Fledgling is, like most imperfectly educated persons who are 
literary pretenders, not always to be held responsible. for verbal in¬ 
novations ; but, in the present instance, he is not so far out of the 
way, this form of the substantive — speciality for specialty —though 
not used, being in perfect analogy with that of the. words it rhymes 
with in the text. Besides, it is correcter etymologically, the term 
having come in to us from the French, specialite, used in the same 
sense. 

P.S. Since the note was written, I have found the word in the 
form ‘ speciality ’ in a philosophical treatise of the present day ; in 
Dr. David Page's Essay on “ Man,” p. 153, N. Y. ed. 1868, — unless 
it is there a misprint. 

8. —P. 422. What a phrase is that!] See above, note 4. 

For the allusion to Fernando, there is in a cognate Review of 
similar pretensions to those of Dr. Sus’s, a passage which will per¬ 
haps explain it. As a few years hence men might grope in vain for 
its fossilized existence, I shall go to the expense of printing the 
article entire, and with all its curiosities of word, syllable and point, 
as I find them on pp. 415-417 of the XIYtli vol. of The National 
Quarterly Review, Edited by Edward I. Sears, A.M., LL.D. — The 
footnotes are made to supply what the Doctor in his “ friendly and 
benevolent spirit ” constrained himself to suppress. 

“ Calvary — Virginina. Tragedies. By Laughton Osborn. 12mo., pp. 200. 

New York : Doolady. 1857. 

“In general Mr. Doolady exhibits considerable judgment in bis selections; it 
is but seldom that we have had any serious fault to find with his publications. 
Nor does the one now before us form an exception; although we do not think 
that Laughton Osborn will ever occupy a high rank among tragic writers. He 
may succeed in other departments of literature, but we can asshre him in all 
kindness that tragedy is not his forte; nor is poetry in any form. After making 
full allowance for the disadvantage under which he has labored in treating the 






THE SCHOOL FOP. CRITICS 


497 


subjects be has chosen, we see nothing to justify us in the opinion that he would 
have succeeded under more favorable circumstances. 

“The incidents which he has attempted to dramatise in ‘Calvary’ are at once 
too familiar and too mysterious. Even Milton has failed in his ‘Paradise Re¬ 
gained.’ The life and death of Christ are so fully detailed in the New Testament 
that it would require a genius of a high order to invest the subject with that air 
of novelty which is essential to the drama. This is admirably illustrated in the 
Divina Commedia of Dante, although not a drama in the strict sense of the 
term. There is no intelligent person who has read that truly sublime poem who 
has not observed a vast difference between the Purgatorio and the Paradiso; 
but a still greater difference between the Inferno and the Paradiao, the latter 
being greatly inferior to either of the former. 

“The reason is obvious enough ; while neither sacred nor profane history has 
much to say on what passes in purgatory or hell, each is quite copious on what 
relates to paradise considered as the happiness derived by man from the death 
of Christ. 

“ If however, it be urged that paradise is not familiar, being extra terrain, the 
same claim cannot be made for Calvary. That the events which took place at 
Calvary were in the highest degree tragic is beyond dispute; but, as already 
observed, all the incidents and circumstances that led to it are so fully described 
that but little room is left for the exercise of the fancy. Were it otherwise, we 
think there would still be some objection to the exhibition of Jesus, the Arch¬ 
angels, Mary, the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene Simon Peter, &c., on the 
stage, at least in the style in which it is done in Laughton Osborn’s ‘ Calvary.’ * 

“Milton was content to commence his Paradise Lost with what took place on 
our own sphere — * man’s first disobedience,’ &c. Homer soared no higher at the 
outset than the wrath of Achilles. Nor has Virgil attempted a different course. 
But our present author lays his first scene in heaven, and his first speakers are 
Raphael and Michael, who have a chorus of angels, though, in sooth, rather a 
discordant one. In Scene III. Jesus, Mary and Martha appear, tfie locus being 
‘A room in the dwelling of Jesus’ Mother.’ If the dialogue which takes place 
between the Saviour of mankind and his Mother had been intended for a 
burlesque it could hardly have seemed to us more profane. But we cheerfully 
do the author the justice to believe that he means well throughout. Mary 
addresses Jesus, * O my darling ! ’ and tells him that what He says is to happen 

* If the reader should think it incredible that the fool, who wrote this staff, 
actually supposed that a drama like Calvary (even if such was the author’s in¬ 
tention) could, with its angels and devils, its scenes in Heaven and in Hell, and 
the act of the crucifixion, be put upon the stage, in any style, I can only toll him 
that I copy literally, and I did not make the fellow’s brains. 






498 


NOTES TO 


makes her ‘blood curdle’.* In another part of the same dialogue she is made 
to say: 

‘ I am thy mother, Jesus, and my heart 
Warms to thee now as when I first beheld thee 
After my weary travail,’ &c. — (p. 9.) t 

“ When Martha enters Mary appeals to her, as if she had more influence on 
Jesus than herself, thus: • 

‘ Kneel with me, Martha ! He has love for thee. 

Tell him he kills me ! Tell him !-’ % 

“ The first scene of the second act is laid in hell, and the interlocutors are 
Lucifer and Beelzebub, who have a chorus of evil spirits which differs very 
slightly, if anything, from the chorus of angels, except that the former is, per¬ 
haps, a little more lugubrious than the latter. Next come Judas Iscariot and 
Mary Magdalene. Judas speaks quite idiomatically. ‘Ugh!’he says, ‘and the 


* Mary. And canst thou speak with calmness, when my heart 
Is aching for thee ? Jesus, O my son ! 

Think on thy mother, and avoid the storm 

That now is darkening o’er thee, and whose shadow . 

Makes my blood curdle with the chill of death. 

For my sake, O my darling ! 


t Mary. Stay yet a little. By that happy time 

Thou hast thyself remember’d, when these breasts 
That now are wither’d fed thee from my blood, 

I do adjure thee ! Thou hast call’d me Mother 
With that sweet voice, although again the tone 
That is so stem and lofty, when thou speak’st 
Those riddles that I dare not try to solve, 

Has aw’d and check’d me, — thou hast call’d me Mother. 

I am thy mother, Jesus,, and my heart 

Warms to thee now as when I first beheld thee 

A£ter my weary travail; see me now 

Embrace thy feet, and pray thee as my god, 

For my sake, for thy own!- 


% Jesus. Thou hast spoken, Martha, loyally and well. 

But, in that faith and wisdom, seest thou not 
That I should need no warning ? Even now 
The heart that shall betray me is convuls’d 
With its distracting passions, and the hand 
Is itching for the silver that shall buy 
My body for the cross. It is decreed. 

Mary. Mean’st thou this fully ? Canst thou still so calmly 

Speak what to credit is- My son ! my son ! 

Kneel with me, Martha ! He has love for thee. 

Tell him he kills me ! Tell him !- Jesus, son ! 

Have mercy on me ! Save thyself — and me ! 







THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


499 


lamp looks dying.’ She replies: ‘ Be not displeas’d, dear Judas.’ (p. 15.) Fur 
ther on in the same dialogue she addresses him : 

‘ That starv’d look worries me ; and, oh ! the chill 
Of this unwholesome lodging I ’ — (p. 15.) * 

“We have not yet got beyond the second act; and the tragedy extends 
to ffve acts, occupying seventy-four pages. Under these circumstances we 
think our readers will excuse us if we cannot proceed any farther in this direc¬ 
tion. 

“ Virginina is a better effort than ‘Calvary’, but we are very much afraid that 
it will not succeed as a tragedy. The Romans, male and female, are made to ex¬ 
press themselves considerably more like New Yorkers than is in strict accordance 
with the truth of history. The following is a pretty favorable specimen: 

», 

Icil. — ‘ I am Icilius, and should the people 

The sole legitimate source of sovereign rule, 

For that they are the many, and their thews 
Strain to heave up, to prop and keep sustain’d 
The edifice whose chambers ye but fill.’ — (p. 103.) 


“ Fernando Wood could hardly have expressed himself more democratically or 


* Judas. The night is chilly. Hast thou not a coal 
To feed the brazier ? Not one drop of wine ? 

Ugh ! and the lamp looks dying. Where is gone 
The shekel that I gave thee yesternight ? 

Magd. Be not displeas’d, dear Judas. I bestow’d it 
But as the Master seem’d to say we ought: 

I cast it in the Treasury. 

Judas. Like that widow 
Whose paltry mites he made of more account 
Than all the rest, because they were her all. 

So thou must give thy all! Of many fools 
Of Magdala, thou. Mary, art the best. 

Why not have gone at once to the perfumer’s, 

Like thy Bethanian namesake, and anoint 
His yellow locks, or even smear his feet, 

As I have seen thee sweep them oftentimes 

With these long delicate hairs (I could defile them !) 

He would have thought still more of it. 

Magd. For shame ! 

Thou speakest of our Lord, the Christ, our King. 
Judas. I know not that: I know that I am weary 
Of waiting for his kingdom, which I thought 
Would make us rich at least, — both thee and me. 
That starv’d look worries me: and oh, the chill 
Of this unwholesome lodging ! With that shekel 
Thou might’st have bought us fire and light and food. 







500 


NOTES TO 


more patriotically than this when a candidate for Governor of the State.* We 
cheerfully admit, however, that there are some good passages in Yirginina, but we 
hope we shall be excused if we prefer to let the reader discover them for himself. 

“Before we conclude we beg to give the author one word of advice, which we 
trust he will accept in the same friendly, benevolent spirit in which it is offered. 
He announces to us on one of the fly-leaves of this volume that the two pieces we 
have just glanced at ‘are the first of a series of nineteen , which, with the Q^cep- 
tion of two, are now completed and ready for the press.’ This is followed by the 
titles of ten tragedies and seven comedies ! We have no doubt that Mr. Osborn is 
as much at home in comedy as he is in tragedy; nay, we think he is more success¬ 
ful in exciting laughter even when he does not mean to do so, than he is in draw¬ 
ing forth tears when most tragically inclined. At the same time, we would advise 
him to withhold his ‘ Silver Head ’ and ‘ Double Deceit 1 (comedies) until the peo- 


* Icil. I am Icilius, and I hold the people 

The sole legitimate source of sovereign rule, 

For that they are the many, and their thews 
Strain to hSave up, to prop and keep sustain’d, 

The edifice whose chambers ye but fill. 

Were Appius not your master as our tyrant, 

My hate to your cruel order were not less, 

And, the decemvirate overthrown, Icilius 

Steps on its carcase, to do battle still 

For freedom and the people’s rights. Thou heareet: — 

These are mjr motives. What are thine ? 

Lucr. I am 

Lucretius, and the common folk of Rome 
I have in hatred less than in disdain. 

But is there eye so blear’d that sees not Appius 
Striding to sovereign rule across our necks ? 

He cring'd to the people, and they set him o’er them. 
He trod them down. He cringes now to us. 

And Rome beholds the guardians of her state 
Become mere servitors to the usurping Ten, 

Whose plural tyranny even now is merging 
Into the singular rule of this bold man. 

I love my order, and will let no Tarquin 
Level its pillars to rear himself a throne. 

These are my motives. 

Icil. And they please me little ; 

As does thy purpled tunic, which they suit. 

But thou dost much; for thou ’rt a man ; thy tongue 
Fears not to utter what thy soul dares think. 


Thus, the language of Icilius, which is considerably more like that of a New- 
Yorker than is strictly accordant with the truth of history, is addressed to one of 
the proudest of the patricians, and not, as the truthful reviewer would advise us 
to the class of people Fernando Wood harangues when a candidate for the State 
Governorship. The misrepresentation however is not greater than that in every 
other part of the “notice,” beginning with “ Virginina ” ; but it is probably less 
intentional, as being the result of stupidity as well as of envy and malevolenco. 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


501 


pie are much more predisposed to laughter than they are at present, and have 
more time and money to spare.” 

And such is the critical record of such a poem as Virginia ! What 
will the men of the future think of our standing as a cultivated 
people, and of the literary judgment and the fair-dealing of our 
critiSs, when they are told that this flippant, pedantic, ill-digested 
and badly-written school-exercise, with its low-bred impertinence, 
its thinly-vailed and hypocritical malignity, and its brazen-faced 
falsehood, is the sole notice that has been taken of that tragedy in 
all the number of our Quarterly Reviews ? 

9. —P. 423. Which in all countries , as late I said , etc., etc.] I 
fear I have been led into plagiarism; for these identical phrases oc¬ 
cur in a work of prodigiously high standing. 

“It is almost superfluous to remark,” says the author of a review 
of Alfieri's Life and Writings , in the XIVth vol. N. Y. Nat. Rev. p. 
216, “ that Alfieri was not entitled to the degree of Master to which 
he thus refers ; but degrees have been conferred in all countries and 
ages in which there are colleges and universities under similar cir¬ 
cumstances ; they are conferred at the present day.” 

It is true, there is scarcely anjdhing but misrepresentation in the 
whole article, and its literary judgments are only a little worse than 
its travesty of Alfieri’s Italian; but, for the remark about the man¬ 
ner in which degrees are given, we, looking on the cover of the 
journal, where we read A.M. , write “ Approved.” 

10. —P 423. In Heidelberg . A British noble got LL.D. 

Gonferr'd on h>s horse.] I had this story on the Neckar. from an 
Oxford student on his vacation tour. He gave it as an illustration 
of the freedom with which the German University dispensed its 
favors. The nobleman handed-in the name of his Bucephalus, and 
nothing further was asked. 









502 


NOTES TO 


/ 

11. —P. 423. A letter'd ass — “hand absurdum est .” 'Tis facero 
well reipublicce.] By a strange coincidence, there is a motto on one 
of our Reviews, “ Pulchrum est bene facere reipublicae, etiam bene 
dicere haud absurdum est.” Some may think it should read male- 
dicere. As Sus says in the text, the words serve to keep his brain¬ 
pan soft; and they may be as efficacious in a title-page. 

12. —P. 428. Because Alger in his Solitude, ete.] 

“ ‘The penalty,’ says the author, ‘affixed to supremely equipped souls is that 
they must often be left alone on the cloudy eminence of their greatness, amid the 
lightnings, the stars, and the canopy, commanding the sovereign prospects indeed, 
but sighing for the warm breath of the vale, and the friendly embraces of men.’ 
. . To come down from the canopy, we should be very glad to know what all this 
sighing and gnashing of teeth is about. * * Byron without his mask was a very 
ordinary sort of person. * * It is indisputable that he liked women [“G-od help 
the wicked ! ”], especially if they were the wives of other men, and the poor 
heart-broken poet saw a chance to destroy the happiness and blacken the good 
fame of a quiet household [!]. He pretended to cling to an early attachment, but 
if he had married the young lady [which ?] it is more than probable that he would 
have treated her as badly, as wickedly, as brutally as he actually treated the lady 
whose life was cursed by her union with him. The real extent of the baseness of 
his conduct toward Lady Byron will never be known now, but the one or two who 
did know of it [know it] declare that it was monstrous beyond conception [!!]. 
It was no woman's jealousy or pique which darkened poor Lady Byron’s days* 
Those who remember the hints thrown out in a narrative of her life which ap¬ 
peared a few years ago in the London Daily News [therefore perfectly reliable] 
will not need to be informed that the melancholy poet was capable of the vilest 
acts. He had many less culpable faults [than these “vilest acts” presumed from 
“hints”]. He liked pleasure [naughty fellow !]. He drank, he gambled, he was 
consumed with vanity [and drank to cool himself], he had intrigues with men’s 
[not boys’] wives and boasted of them, he turned round and abused his dupes in 
his poetry for being false to their husbands [eh ?], he lied habitually, and he was 
mean and cunning [all of which propensities, acts, and habits, form what are so 
curiously called less culpable faults]." N. Y. Times , Thursday, May 2, 1867. 

Alger did indeed talk like a fool, if his style is as above quoted; 
but this is to grunt and growl like a beast. 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


503 


13- P- 428. And Emerson's verse without rhyming close, And a 
devilish deal less tough.] 

“ The longest poem in the present collection is entitled ‘ May-Day'.It 

breathes throughout the freshness and the beauty of Spring, and overflows with 
poetic thought and imaginative sympathy with the breaking of the '■marble sleep' 
of W inter. [Good lack-a-day I where is Alger ?] ... What a graphic piece of 

description is this: 

Lo ! how all the tribes combine 
To rout the flying foe. 

See, every patriot oak-leaf throws 
His elfin length upon the snows ; 

Not idle, since the leaf all day 
Draws to the spot the solar ray, 

Ere sunset quarrying inches down, 

And half-way to the mosses brown: 

While the grass beneath the rime 
Has hints of the propitious time, 

And upward pries and perforates 
Through the cold slab a thousand gates, 

Till green lances peering through 

Bend happy in the welkin blue.” 1V. Y. Times , May 1, 1867. 

The grass having hints, and prying and 'perforating in a slab a thou¬ 
sand gates, and lances peering and bending happy, is so good that 
we will cut off this quotation here. Then: 

“ The northward procession of the Spring is thus vividly described : 

I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth, 

Stepping daily onward north 
To greet staid ancient cavaliers 
Filing single in stately train. 

* And who, and who are the travelers t 

They were Night and Day, and Day and Night, 

Pilgrims wight with step forthright. 

I saw the Days deformed and low , 

Short and bent by cold and snow; 

The merry Spring threw wreaths on them, 

[Which was a mauvaise plaisanterie , as they were already snow-bowed] 
Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell; 

Many a flower and many a gem, 

They were refreshed by the smell. 

They shook the snow from hats and shoon, - 
They put their April raiment on ; 

And those eternal forms [ “deformed and low” ] 




504 


NOTES TO 


Unhurt by a thousand storms 
[ Yet bent by the weight of snow ] 

Shot up to the height of the sky again , 
And danced as merrily as young men.” 


Fancy them, these pilgrims wight with step forthright, shooting up 
to the ’height of the sky, then dancing away right merrily: The image 
is of Longinistic sublimity, and one is tempted to ask with the big- 
worded Grecian, Where the devil did they find the space ? But let us 
continue: it is such a treat to have a pretentious and affected phi¬ 
losopher writing — well, such verses as a child should be spanked for. 

“ I saw them mask their awful glance 
Sidewise meek in gossamer lids ; 

And to speak my thought if none forbids, 

It was as if the eternal gods, 

Tired of their starry periods, [acc. periods'] 

Hid their majesty in cloth 
Woven of tulips and painted moth. 

On carpets green the maskers march 
Below May’s well-appointed arch, 

Each star, each god, each grace amain, 

[ all made out of the pilgrims wight, who, vaili lg their awful glance's light, 
Sidewise meek, if no sense forbids, in gossamer lid:, maskers grow in a Joseph's 
cloth Woven of tulips and painted moth. —By the by, as moths do not come out 
in April, with paint or without, nor the tulips either I believe, where did 
the cavalier-traveler-Days deformed get their wardrobe Unhurt by a thousand 
storms for their eternal sky- high forms ? ] 

Every joy and virtue speed, [?] 

Marching duly in her train, 

And fainting Nature at her need 

Is made whole again.” » 

[It’s a wonder she was not driven starlc-mad.] 

And the fool or sycophant praises this stuff of Emerson’s, who, 
besides having his head lialf-way up in a Swinburne fog, and being 
almost as incapable of rythm as Walt Whitman, has no adequate 
conception of what is rhyme ! 


“We give space to one extract more, the closing passage of the poem. 
For thou, O Spring ! canst renovate 
All that high God did first create. 



THE SCHOOL FOR* CRITICS 


505 


Be still his arm and architect , 

Rebuild the ruin, mend defect; 

Chemist to vamp old worlds with new, 

Coat sea and sky with heavenlier blue, 
New-tint the plumage of the birds, 

And slough decay from grazing herds, etc.” 


We shall follow no further. Tbe image of the chemist turned cob¬ 
bler and vamping old worlds with new , though he does not tell how 
the feat is done, which were a considerable one even were it old 
shoes with new , and the sloughing of decay from cattle while grazing 
(an excellent thing in the present panic of the meat-market,) make 
too delectable an ending for us to mar it by addition. 


14. —P. 428. As pompous an ass as Victor Hugo , Who, etc., 
etc.] One of the best-marked personal traits of this greatly over¬ 
rated poet and romancer, is conspicuous in the following note taken 
from the H. Y. Times of July 30, 1867. 

“Letter from Victor Hugo on John Brown. 

From la Cooperation. 

The editor of this journal, having opened a subscription with a view to offering 
a medal to John Brown’s widow, received the subjoined letter from Victor 
Hugo : 

Hauteville House, July 3, 1867. 

Sir: My name belongs to all who would make use of It to serve progress and 

truth. 

A medal to Lincoln calls for a medal to John Brown. Let us cancel that 
debt pending such time as America shall cancel hers. America owes John 
Brown a statue as tall as that of WASHINGTON. Washington ‘founded’ 
America, John Brown diffused liberty. 

I press your hand. 

VICTOR HUGO.” 

Here we see lack of judgment in the exaltation of a simple 
fanatic, relieved, but not concealed, by a pomposity and affectation 
that are really ludicrous. Much of what M. Hugo writes in epistles 
to the public is of this character: (witness his appeal for Maxi- 
Vol. IV.— 22 



506 


NOTES TO 


milian to Juarez.*) He seems to think himself not only the primi¬ 
tive and particular apostle of liberty, but the foremost man on all 
occasions, and whose sentiments on any public question are of 
value, whether he is conversant with it or not. Yet it is this affec¬ 
tation, which would degrade even ordinary talent, and reminds us 
of the stage-strut and mouthing of secondrate tragedy-actors, that 
is taken, by such asses as Fledgling , (though in the text he is not 
made to bray) as a proper indication of genius. For example: 


“The recent correspondence between Victor Hugo and the young poets of 
France .... is one of the most graceful and eloquent passages in modem literar 
ture. * * * To their expressions of ‘ boundless admiration 1 the old poet replied 
,with a delicacy of compliment, a brilliancy of eloquence, a tenderness of feeling 
which showed how well they had called him ‘ master ’, and how simply and [yet] 
boldly true were their epithets. ‘Dear poets, the literary revolution of 1830, 
corollary and consequence of the revolution of 1789 [!], is a fact which belongs to 
our age. I am the humble soldier of this progress. I fight for revolution under 
all its forms — under the literary form as under the social form. I have liberty for 
principle, progress for law, the ideal for type.’ Our epoch is ‘ a profound epoch, 
against which no reaction is possible. Grand art forms a part in this grand age. 
It is its soul. * * We, the old — we have had the combat; you, the young — 
you will have the triumph.’ Then, in a characteristic generalization, Victor Hugo 
declares that ‘ the spirit of the 19 th century combines the democratic search for the 
True, with the eternal law of the Beautiful ’, and it directs ‘ everything toward 
this sovereign end, liberty in intelligence, the ideal in art. Literature ought to 
be at once democratic and ideal: democratic for civilization , ideal for the soul.' ” 
( N. Y. Times.) 


All of which is as pellucid as plumcake, while at the same time it 
is as void of inflation as soap-bubbles. 


“ In a fine closing sentence,” pursues the newspaper youth, “he tells the young 
poets, ‘ I am proud to see my name surrounded by yours. Your names are a 
garland of stars’” [of the smallest microscopic magnitude.] 


* And more recently his vehement objurgation of those who chose to sentence 
and to execute a negro girl of twelve years, who had committed a murder in 
Kentucky. The newspapers make him eject froth after this fashion: “Was 
there not manhood left in Kentucky to tear out the tongues of the fiends who 
pronounced judgment on that girl, and break the arms of those who were base 
enough to carry out such a sentence ? ” Yet M. Hugo has long ceased to be a 
schoolboy. 



THE SCHOOL FOE CELTICS 


507 


Perhaps he wrote galaxy . But it does not matter. Either way, 
simple or confused, the metaphor is felicitous. If they are the stars, 
he of course must he the centre of the system; and that he could 
assert them to be such, and proclaim his own pride to be so gar¬ 
landed, galaxied, or satellited, is especially illustrative of the “ demo¬ 
cratic search for the True ,” — which no one will henceforth doubt has 
been found by M. Hugo. 

15.—P. 435. Act the Third.] In this Scene, if I shall seem to 
praise myself, it will be because I copy, as closely as the occasion 
and the verse will permit, the sentiments expressed by two of the 
characters in their literary function, and the facts as detailed to one 
of my brothers by the third. 

In taking the liberty I have done in introducing these gentlemen 
into my piece, I have been guided more by a sense of gratitude 
than by any other motive. I have so little to be grateful for in all 
my literary career to my fellows, that I may be allowed to indulge 
the feeling at the expense of an appearance of egotism, as I certainly 
have done it to the detriment of my drama. 

Begging then pardon of each one, I may say to him safely, if I 
know myself: 

“ In freta dum fluvii current,. 

.polus dum sidera pascet, 

Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt, 

Quae me cumque vocant terrae.” 


16.—P. 439. Because intent To keep from the light his false argu¬ 
ment .] 

lyho shames a scribbler ? break one cobweb through. 

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: 

Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, 

The creature’s at his dirty work again. PorE. Prol. to Sat. 

Just as this 3d Act was passing through the hands of the com- 





508 


NOTES TO 


A 

positor, I learned that the Round Table had, with inconceivable 
effrontery — no, it was the Round Table — had, with characteristic 
effrontery, dared to talk thus of Bianca — of Bianca Capello , which 
I have placed next to Virginia in the collective volume of dramas, — 
Bianca , which, however faulty, is full of incident, action and passion, 
and conspicuous for stage-effect, but whose “plot” is its weakest 
point, and whose “ language and ideas ” this sciolist, who cannot 
write grammatically and has no sentiment but for the commonplace 
and routine'of his trade, condemns by commendation. The empha¬ 
sizing by capitals and italics is my own. 

“ There is the same tiresome prolixity of dialogue , the same peculiar wood- 
ENNESS IN THE PERSONAGES of the drama, the same FRIGIDITY OF IMAGINA¬ 
TION we before remarked as characteristic of the author , but also, it is fair to 
add [delightful candor!], a symmetry of plot and, in the main , a correctness of 
language and ideas which are his chief virtues. The play is founded on an epi¬ 
sode in the romantic history of Bianca Capello, who, etc.” [It happens to be her 
entire history. Did he really know what is an “ episode ? ”] “ She died in 1587, 

at Poggio [Did she ? It would be as correct to say, The ducal palace was at 
Pitti. She died in the Villa del Poggio at Caiano, as he was taught in the drama, 
as well as in the “Appendices” from which alone the dunce has borrowed all his 
information] within a few minutes of her husband, [that is the play, not history, 
which the ignorant is affecting to talk after. The briefest interval assigned by 
historians is fifteen hours ] both having been taken suddenly ill after a dinner at 
which the grand duke’s brother, Cardinal Ferdinand, participated.'" [Partici¬ 
pated at is good. Here is a smatterer, who pretends to find correctness (I beg 
pardon, correctness in the main ) in my language, yet cannot write an article, 
occupying in its whole extent about half a column of his miscellany, without mak¬ 
ing three capital mistakes in his own ; for when he says, in the title of the book, 
“ Being a completion of the First volume, &c.”, he wrote what I did not. Had I 
so chosen to phrase the title, I should have said '•'■the completion;” but it is 
really printed “Being in completion.”] “ The cardinal was suspected of having 
poisoned them, a view which Mr. Osborn adopts, making the nlbtive consist in 
his unrequited love for Bianca .” Etc., etc. [Mr. Osborn never made any such 
thing. He is not a fool, though his cacocritic may be half-a-dozen. But this 
assertion must be deliberate, therefore wilful, misrepresentation, — like that of 
the Nation when it said I made Judas sell his Master to buy Mary Magdalene 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


509 


bread and bntter. The Cardinal, blinded by revenge for a supposed injury, the 
most poignant that could be offered to a man of his temper as well as of his posi¬ 
tion, permits Malocuor, the inventor of that simulated wrong, to poison both the 
Duke and Bianca in order to further his the Cardinal’s long-brooded ambition. 
A reader of nature, — which is not either the Round Table's waiter or the old 
woman of the Nation , — knows well that it is often these added stings that give 
the final impulsion to some vicious passion, and prompt to a sudden and violent 
accomplishment what has been the meditated purpose of years.] 

Let us return to the criticism ( so to call it). “ Prolixity of dia¬ 
logue ” is hardly reconcileable with “ symmetry of plot ” and “ cor¬ 
rectness of language and ideas.” The dramatist who exhibits these 
striking merits could not easily commit a fault which can exist only 
with one who is ignorant of the requirements of dramatic writing. 
Symmetry of plot , if I understand the phrase, implies strict unity 
of action, and therefore the exclusion of everything that would im¬ 
pede, or even be unnecessary to, that action. Upon this principle, 
I may be suffered to assert, are all my dramas founded,* and there¬ 
fore I shall be found to set aside all the useless, awkward, and 
unnatural train of confidants, and persons whose whole business in 
a play is to talk, whether wit or wisdom, and whose intervention 
does not promote one step the evolution of the plot or the approach 

* I must be forgiven, if, with considerable hesitation, I venture to append from 
Ernestin (published 1858), the following passage, which I am willing should fur¬ 
nish the standard whereby my dramas are to be measured, although in fact it 
had reference only to Virginia. 

.... “for the same spirit of truth which guided Ernestin in all things else 
made him shrink, as at sin, from any violation of probability in the plot, shaped 
his characters with consistency and exactness, and rendered impossible a want of 
nature in the dialogue ; while the energy, impetuosity, and fire of his disposition, 
which in everything he undertook was ever driving him to the end by the straight- 
est and shortest road and without abatement of speed, saved him from irrelevance 
of incident and superfluousness of persons, shut out all narrative that was not un¬ 
avoidable, and made his action and his style rapid, vehement, and nervous.” p. 348. 

This, it may be thought, is high self-praise. But, looking down the not dim 
vista of the future, and seeing what I there see in its far horizon, the single star 
that never sets on my grave, I do not fear to write it, and boldly-challenge for it 
the exactest scrutiny. 



510 


NOTES TO 


of the catastrophe. And it is on this account I have said above, 
that the 3d Act, though introduced with a particular design, spoils 
the present piece. Having too, I well may claim, an absolute devo¬ 
tion to Nature, sacrificing all needless description, all poetical adorn¬ 
ment, where contrary to her requirements, how is it possible that 
my dialogue should be prolix ? Besides, the Table knows very well, 
or there is another point deficient in its qualifications, that in every 
play extensive mutilations are made in the dialogue to fit it for the 
Stage.* But the reader shall judge for himself. Bound up in this 
volume, is the Montanini , a drama fitted for performance. If I shall 
be found to have uttered there any five lines in succession that 
could have been spared, I will admit the Table-man is less reckless- 
of his assertions in one particular than he appears to be in all.f 

For the “ peculiar woodeuness in the personages”: where the 

* Vide passim Inchbald’s British Theatre.—I have indicated, myself, some of 
the abbreviations to be made in my own dramas. 

+ In the favorite tragedy of Hamlet , which has twenty-two interlocutors, great 
and small, I make out 3482 verses, of all kinds, counting among them the lines of 
prose dialogue, each of which contains rather more word-matter than a full iam¬ 
bic verse. In Virginia, which has twenty interlocutors, whereof sixteen have 
perfectly distinctive characters, there are 1690 verses, 31 of which are marked 
“to be omitted” in the representation. Deducting these, there are but 1659 
verses. Thus Shakspeare's Hamlet has 1823 verses, or actually one-half, more of 
dialogue than Virginia! Nay, Bianca Capello , which covers a period of many 
years (being a “romantic” drama) and has thirty-three speakers, great and 
small, contains but 2524 verses all told, or, deducting those marked to be omitted 
(98 in number, ) 2426 verses, being 1056 ( or nearly one-third ) less than in Hamlet. 

So much for the integrity of this- Poh ! whore the deliberate misrepresen¬ 

tation, the crafty mutilation and suppression, the hypocritical depreciation, are 
so prominent characteristics of all the Round Table's notices, beginning with that 
of Virginia, it is but a small matter to find it thus demonstrably false-spoken. 
The reader will however understand that were my books not kept from circula¬ 
tion, nay virtually suppressed, by the malignant calumnies of such mean pre¬ 
tenders, I should not extend to them the honor of an argument, and the School 
for Critics would not take the place of pieces which, like the Montanini , do some¬ 
thing more than furnish amusement. 






THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


511 


proud, yet hypocritical and subtle Cardinal , the crafty, double-deal¬ 
ing and perfidious Malocuore , the grave, dignified, sensible and hon¬ 
orable Sennuccio, the impulsive yet gallant Bonavenluri, and Biauca 
herself, tender, yet spirited and high-minded, are prominent,— where 
even the very Assassins have each his distinctive character, and 
there is uo one without attribute save Donna Virginia , who is pur¬ 
posely made so, and is so indicated in the text, — where these and 
others are the persons represented, the man who could dare say that 
• mu3t be either ignorant of his trade — I beg pardon, he is perfectly 
master of his trade — ignorant, then, of true criticism, or a wilful 
falsifier. Let him be either or both. Probably as both he is useful 
in a journal which, according to its own modest and truthful account 
of itself in its “ spontaneous growth,’’ “has labored vigorously for 
national literature ” and has been “ pronounced to be the Ablest Pub¬ 
lication of its Class in the United States.”* I venture the assertion, 
without any hesitancy ( because I speak after due comparison ), that, 
whatever the defects of my pieces, there are not, in the whole range 
of dramatic writing from iEschylus down, any series of characters 
that are better discriminated, more life-like, and more true to nature 
than my own. 

For the “ frigidity of imagination ”, I have said enough iu the 3d 
Act of this drama, — p. 43H, lines 4-7, and p. 438, 11. 12-18. The 
fool or malignant who ventured on that false ascription would, were 
his censure conscientious, exclude Schiller, Alfieri, Corneille from 
the Pantheon of dramatic poets and put Bedlam Swinburne in its 
principal niche. It is the old story. Pope, who, aiming at “cor¬ 
rectness,” had sense for his lodestar and reason for his monitor, is 

* One thing is certain. Either tire writer of that article is a born fool, or he is 
a parcel-educated dullard. I had a brief acquaintance with the late Edgar A. Poe. 
On one occasion, when I was speaking of the unpopularity of my works, he said to 
me : “ We authors, >Ir. Osborn, have opinions of our own, and they are in general 
very different from those that are retailed to the public by reviewers.” Such is 
my consolation. 



512 


NOTES TO 


denied by such men the spirit of a poet: the genuine bards are those 
alone who give rein to their hippogriff and gallop up and down the 
poetical heaven just as the ungovernable mongrel mat 7 choose to bear 
them. The first principle of good writing is perspicuity. He whose 
imagination ” sees clearly will paint clearly, and his words, like 
the colors and the tones of a true painter, will not be of the rainbow, 
nor of the cloud, but pure, distinct, harmonious ; his light and shadow, 
though magical in their attraction, will be nature’s own, and his de¬ 
sign, while free of harshness, in no part vague. The lessons of crit¬ 
icism seem to be excluded from our schools, or to be forgotten. Yet 
the principles of true art are the same as they were a hundred years 
ago, and will be the same forever, for they are founded on nature 
and reason only. Who are the poets that are still preferred ? For 
one who reads, or better, w r ho has redd Lycophron, there are ten 
thousand who joy in Homer still. How is it then, that that which 
is so much admired in the latter, his simplicity and distinctness, 
should allow of admiration for the glittering fustian of a Talfourd or 
the unintelligible jumble of a Swinburne? But such writers are not 
really admired, and are never understood. Id argues perspicacity, 
to pretend to understand them. Omne ignotum pro mirijico: what is 
not intelligible is taken to be wonderful. In the words of my own 
text (let me be permitted to repeat them:) 

For fustian maintains a name's illusion 
With man, who is dazzled by word-confusion, 

And finds magnificent and grand 
All that his noddle can’t understand, 

And weighty the thoughts from whose tangled skeins 
He fails to draw a conclusion. 

Frigidity of imagination , or of anything else, in me ! - But the 

impertinent did not believe, and never even thought it. It was a 
tumid phrase of abusive liemi-criticism, and he used its sound, as 
fustianists and magpies do, without a meaning. But when I say, 
that to have used it shows he has frigidity of heart and arctic iciness 




THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


513 


of conscience, I speak thoughtfully, and mean ( with allowance for 
the stilted language I mimic but to mock) precisely what I say.* 

That the reader might know what these creatures are, and that 
the future may have no trouble to unearth them, I have taken these 
pains to notice what would otherwise be speedily forgotten. The 
day will come when the malignant, envious and perhaps revengeful 
author of that short-sighted article will hide his head for having 
ejected it on such a tragedy as Bianca , as the gentlemen I have ven¬ 
tured to introduce in the present piece as the interlocutors of Act 
III. will take honor to themselves that they had the sense to feel, 
the taste and culture to understand, and the conscience to express 
their judgment and their feeling, in the case of all these dramas, 
which not ten thousand fools and maliguants can put down, and 
which shall take their place in my country’s literature in defiance of 
the neglect of her men of real talent and the studied slight of her 
fifteeu-penny criticasters. Living but for truth, as perhaps I shall 
die for it, one great desire of my life is to represent as they are these 
parasites on the fair growth of literature, to show them in their 
actual deformity, their individual insignificance and yet their aggre¬ 
gate noxiousness. — Let me annex but one remark: 

If anything could increase my disgust, or add to the turpitude of 
the pretentious sheet thus noticed, it is that in the leading article of 
this very Number, it lends its influence to promote the election, to 
the Presidency of this great republic, of a man who was a traitor to 
its unity, and not only the abettor of treason, but who had the base¬ 
ness to address in friendly terms the horrible wretches whose hands 
were scarcely dry of the innocent blood with which they had sprinkled 
the ashes of incendiarism and dyed of a more revoltinghue the crime 

* I beg leave to refer to a subnote “ (4) ” in the 3d Appendix to Bianca. The 
melancholy avowal there made would have moved any but the “ frigid ” nature I 
expose to scorn. Yet the heartless blockhead culled out of it an allusion (After 
my death , when my countrymen may condescend to read these dramas , ) where¬ 
with to make a gnat’s sting of the last of his Lilliputian arrows. 

OO* 




514 


NOTES TO 


of burglary. But why should I be disgusted? It was meet that the 
false-tongued journal, which in envy, malice, or in downright igno¬ 
rance, could lend itself to the overthrow of the temple of true art, 
should look with complacency on treason, and find no danger to the 
republic in the advocates or apologists of rebellion and the demagog- 
ism that would truckle to the worst passions of a foreign-born mob. 

17. —P. 440. For he took the pains both pieces to cite In a note to 
his story of Alice.] Hinc illae lacrymae. Had I kissed the rod, I 
might have counted more sugarplums both for Alice and for Bianca. 
But the temptation to expose the ignorance, the self-assurance, the 
flippant impertinence, the hypocrisy, the mendacity, of these ani¬ 
mated fungi of literature, was too mighty to resist. So I succumbed, 
without a permit from Doolady. 

18. —P. 442. Vat Jean in the Miserdbles , — Who, liken'd to Christ 
in the strife for good —] This is not my comparison. The more 
reverent reader will please hold M. Hugo responsible. 

19. —P. 447. Like Ferdinand Mendez Pinto Dixon Who found , 
etc.] Malice is contagious. Inoculated with the virus of Mr. Hep- 
wortli Dixon’s slanders, the Vie Parisienne , which the correspondent 
of the N. Y. Times (whence I take the translation ) says is an able 
weekly paper circulating among the better classes of Paris, has the 
audacity to talk as follows: 

“ In conclusion, I hardly dare to speak of a certain trait of American manners, 
* it is so delicate ; but I am going to risk it. It appears that there is a house at 
New York, tolerated by the Government [!], where they satisfy the wishes of 
married ladies who do not care for the ioys of maternity. A lady, in making her 
morning calls, tells her friends that on a certain day she had been to the house 
in question, with as much indifference as if it had been a work of charity. Young 
ladies are also taken into this house to board, who — but I stop, and for a good 
cause. When one reflects that an act which carries the people who commit it so 
far away from Ft'ance [!] appears quite natural in America, he cannot but have 
a strange opinion of universal morality.” July SO, 1867. 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


515 


But for the atrocious advertisements which abound in the New- 
York newspapers, in none more than in the N. Y. Times itself, it is 
easy to see that such a wicked absurdity, wherein combine the ig¬ 
norance, the malice, and the self-conceit, that distinguish in literary 
matters the “ ingenious gentlemen " of the Round Table , could never 
have been concocted. But if not purely the invention of the writers 
in either case, they have been the victims of a well-knowu danger¬ 
ous humor among our people, — that of bantering supercilious 
strangers, and stuffing their ears with all sorts of libels against 
themselves. This has been recognized by all of us as practiced on 
all the note-taking travelers, beginning with Mrs. Trollope and inclu¬ 
ding the cockney Dickens. 

I may add, that the most impertinent of the transgressions of 
these Munchausens is their pretence of describing the most refined 
society among us as if they were familiar with it, whereas I have 
never been able to discover that they were in it at all; not at least 
in New York. 

20. —P. 449. Save one divine article Of which not a particle 
Shall be lost to the last of the Yankees begotten .] See above, Note 8, 
where it will be found preserved, like the fly in amber. 

21. —P.453. —skedaddled—] See next note. 

22. —P. 459. — vamos’d the ranch!] A mongrel cant phrase 

prevalent in the South-west. Vamos is the Spanish for Allons! 
Come ! and ranche is a corruption of rancho , or rancheria , which in 
the Mexican-Spanish of California appears to be used to signify a 
farm, although in the Castilian application of the word ( mess , or 
mess-room ) the composition is intelligible. The phrase is therefore 
equivalent to the kindred elegancies, absquatulated — “ skedaddled ” 
— and the English, as well as American, “cut stick.” All of which 
niceties we gather from the newspapers, if they teach us nothing 




516 


NOTES TO 


else; and for which, as they are characteristic of our hero S. M., 
and his congeners, let us be thankful. 

23.—P. 462. But dotes on Walt Whitman's batrachian fire —] 

“ Walt Whitman’s ‘Carol of Harvest, for 1867,’ is a very unequal production. 
The opening stanzas are overflowing with poetic feeling , and their rythm is sweet 
and, musical. How tender is the pathos of these lines : 

* * * * 

Pass—pass, ye proud brigades ! 

So handsome, dress’d in blue—with your tramping, siuewy legs; 

* * * * 

Pass; — then rattle, drums, again ! 

Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill, your salutes 1 
For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering army ! 

Swarming, trailing on the rear—0 you dread accruing army ! 

O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea ! with your fevers! 

O my land’s maimed darlings! until the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch ! 
Lo ! your pallid army follow'd ! 

But on these days of brightness, 

On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled 
farm-wagons, and the fruits and bams, 

Shall the dead intrude ? 

^ * * % 

Melt, melt away, ye armies ! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers ! 

Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms; 

Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West, 
With saner war — sweet wars — life-giving wars. 

“ But the following passage ” (says the criticaster tenderly) . . . “ reads more 
like an extract from an agricultural report than poetry: 

* * * 

The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw, 
The power-hoes for corn fields — the nimble work of the patent pitchfork; 
Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the cotton-gin, and the riee-cleanser.” 

— N. Y. Times , Aug. 26, 1867. 


After that, the honest and capable criticizer notices some of Mr. 
Tilton’s always rythmical verses, and says, “ Such verses might be 



THE SCHOOL FOR CRITICS 


517 


written by the yard, and kept on hand to be cut into pieces of right [the 
right] length to fill out a page.” Where it will be seen that the 
ignoramus has uttered what, barring its bad English, might be rea¬ 
sonably applied to Mr. Whitman’s measures. 

24. —P. 466. — at Willis'.] Almack’s. 

25. —P. 482. He may rank with New England's best.] Some per¬ 
sons may think this is not paying him a very great compliment. 
However that may be, it is a just one. But to pick out the child’s 
trifle, and pass over all the well melodized and often nervous poems 
that precede it, was quite after the fashion of newspaper and maga¬ 
zine witlings, where they have a personal animosity, and is notably 
Fledgling. 


26.—P. 485. “ Hanging to dry.'”] Of so brief a quotation, it is not 

always easy to trace the source, and consequently to explain the al¬ 
lusion. We are able to do this in the present case, only by going to 
the familiar associations of the Hotchpot Cryer. Deadhead had pro¬ 
bably in the cleanly chambers of his memory one of those exhilara¬ 
ting volumes — Fescennini versus, which are kept under the tables 
of the market peddlers and sold with great mystery to schoolboys 
and servant-maids. 


END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME. 









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